


Blackout

by greyhavensking



Series: the misadventures of blackout and her found family trope [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Daredevil (TV), Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Basically just know that the Punisher happened, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, But also, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Fair warning - Elektra is not really a thing in this story, Humor, Hurt Matt Murdock, I ripped off the shawarma scene, Inhumans (Marvel), Magic, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt Murdock and His Catholic Guilt, Minor Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Minor Character Death, Multi, Neither is the ninja plotline of season 2 of Daredevil, Nonbinary Character, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Canon Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Not Tony Stark Friendly, Or is currently happening depending on where you're at in the story, Original Character Needs a Drink, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Matt Murdock, Panic Attacks, Past Matt Murdock/Karen Page, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, SHIELD, Slow Burn, Sorry again, Sorry?, Still not over Civil War and so you're gonna get a lot of my feelings about that, Tags May Change, The Defenders - Remix, The Sidekick Dilemma, big dumbass energy, cliche cat rescues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2020-08-23 07:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 128,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20239192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyhavensking/pseuds/greyhavensking
Summary: Michaela King is new to the superhero gig - as in, super new. (Ha) But that doesn't mean she plans to shy away from her newfound responsibilities, especially when she's living in Hell's Kitchen and the Avengers can't be called upon to settle every petty squabble that breaks out in her neighborhood. She's not the only small-time hero who thinks big picture, either, and well - who doesn't love a good old-fashioned team-up?(DISCLAIMER: The original characters are mine, as is the story idea. Marvel owns the rest. )





	1. prologue | shocking beginnings

The static shock is new.

Michaela isn’t an idiot (most days); static shock as a  _ concept  _ isn’t new. She’s been terrorizing the neighborhood with it since she was seven and her grandma knitted her a pair of incredibly ugly wool socks that she refused to take off, which were then forcibly removed after she’d gone two days without a bath. And she’s hardly a stranger to grabbing onto a pole on the subway and zapping the hell out of herself.

But this is… more. 

Tuesday morning dawns, presumably, bright and bitterly cold, though Michaela doesn’t open her eyes until 8:53, approximately seven minutes before her first class. The only comment she has about the weather is to declare it was  _ too fucking cold  _ as she hurriedly threw on a seasonally-inappropriate jacket on her way out of her apartment. Late as she is, she can’t grab breakfast from the cafe on campus, or even a coffee, which doesn’t bode well for her attitude for the rest of the day.

She snaps at a professor or two. Her next paper is probably going to get tanked. Oh fucking well.

The point is, though, that she wasn’t in any state of mind to notice it until well into the afternoon when she’s holed up behind the register at  _ Cody’s _ , mindlessly greeting customers and desperately hoping none of them choose to mention her smudged makeup or the unavoidable stains under her arms. This wasn’t a clean shirt by any means, hadn’t been clean when she wore it last, either. Is it her fault that the washers in her apartment complex ate quarters like they were fucking caviar? 

A few regulars pass through — Diego and Carla, Tommy and Riley, Mr. Yang — but they don’t linger today like they might have otherwise. The shop isn’t busy, really, there are only a handful of people browsing, so apparently she’s giving off pretty strong  _ don’t-engage-with-me-I’m-not-human-today  _ vibes, which suits her fine. For the most part. 

The absence of friendly conversation is starting to wear on her the longer her shift drags on. Her leg shakes, knee bobbing against the row of drawers behind the register; she worries at a hangnail on her thumb, too chicken just to rip it off; the copper on her tongue comes from having her teeth planted a little viciously in her lower lip. God, she has so much homework for this week, and then  _ finals  _ are coming up, she’ll be swamped, how the hell is she going to come into work when she already knows she has three papers, two projects, and an oral presentation due in a few weeks—

Someone steps up to the register and Michaela straightens instinctively, whacking her knee against the drawers in her haste. She hisses out a strangled breath, fighting the urge to crouch down and cradle her leg; instead, she forces a brittle smile at the man in front of her and says, “Hope you found everything alright. Want me to ring you up?”

The man smiles in sympathy, his brows drawn together behind his red-tinted glasses. “Yeah, that’d be great.” He loads his things onto the counter and Michaela dutifully ignores them; she’s learned not to make assumptions based on what people bought, and more to the point, she doesn’t care to make a guessing game out of it, not when she has better things to waste brainpower on. She’s already started working his purchases into the register when he says, with a smidge of hesitation, “Are you alright? I heard a  _ bang _ and it, uh, didn’t sound great.”

Michaela pauses, biting again at her lip. She doesn’t normally take notice of customers, aside from the ones that turn up on a daily basis, but — the guy smiles at her, sheepish but charming, and she drops her gaze to give him an absent once-over and—

Ah. Fuck.

His suit is nice, though she doesn’t really have an eye for expensive tastes. For all she knows he’d nicked it from a Good Will bin and it’s really thirty years old. But it looks good on him; charcoal jacket and pants, crisp white shirt, maroon tie that she thinks maybe matches his glasses? Short, dark-brown hair, stubble on his cheeks and chin. Cute, overall. And then there’s the cane.

She’d thought his phrasing had been a little odd. He’d  _ heard  _ her, didn’t mention the pained grimace that had undoubtedly flashed across her face before she schooled her features into reluctant professionalism. 

So. Cute and blind, if she isn’t being too presumptuous. Huh.

“I’m…” She waves a hand, mentally curses herself, then says, “You know. Banged my knee a little. Nothing to complain to HR about.” What HR? She works at a convenience store. Michaela squeezes her eyes shut, breathes out slowly, embarrassingly grateful he can’t see just how much of a fool she is. Awkward as fuck and caffeine-deficient, she isn’t at her best today, or. Well. She can’t remember the last time she’d been at her best. “I’m fine, really, but thanks for asking. This all for today?” she asks, grabbing at a subject change with both hands and yanking for all she was worth.

He probably sees— or, not  _ sees _ , hell. He can probably tell what she was doing, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just gives an easy shrug and taps his cane lightly against the floor. “That’s all. I’m just on a snack run for my partner. We’ve been at the office all day, and he likes to remind me when I’ve gone too long without getting some fresh air.”

Aw, nice guy. Michaela could use someone like that, if she’s being honest with herself. Which she isn’t, not today anyway. Today is not a day for honesty. She needs more sleep for that, and like, at least one espresso. 

She grins, another reflex, and bags his snacks. “Not sure if the air here qualifies. Especially not after last week.”

The man’s brows twitch upwards, just a little. “Were you around for the attack?”

“Uh.” Way to go, Michaela. That’s a pleasant topic, very casual. “Yes? Technically?” Stop making everything a question, Jesus! “The, um, the blast, or whatever, I wasn’t all that close to it, but I got caught by the cloud of…” 

She trails off. Fuck if she knew what tragic-backstory-of-the-week exposed them to. The doctors at the hospital she’d woken up at didn’t know what it was, either, but they’d collectively decided that it hadn’t been toxic, so. Death isn’t on the horizon, apparently. 

_ What a pity _ . 

“I mean, I’m fine, obviously. Got kinda scraped up when I fell and all, but nothing serious.” That’s when she clocks the bandage wrapped around the guy’s hand, and since she’d already stuck her foot in her mouth, she might as well go for broke. “Did you… What about you?”

That gives him pause, only for a moment, before his injured hand flexes and then cinches tighter around the handle of his cane. He laughs, shakes his head. “Oh, no, I got lucky. I was visiting a friend when it happened, so I wasn’t in town.” Another smile. “But I’m glad to hear you’re alright.”

Right. Sure. This isn’t just two people exchanging niceties for a (nearly) awkward length of time. Michaela abruptly ducks her head and pushes his bag closer to the edge of the counter. “Yeah, good news for me,” she says, refusing to acknowledge her flushed cheeks. When is her shift over again?  _ Not soon enough _ . “Here you go. That’ll be $8.37.”

He passes her a twenty, insists she keep the change (which is  _ absurd _ , she doesn’t get tips, and she can’t be  _ rude _ —) but when she makes to press the bill back into his hands she yelps at the shock of their skin meeting. And for once she isn’t being dramatic, there was a  _ literal  _ shock, she could’ve sworn she’d seen a  _ spark _ —

Glasses frowns as his hand spasms, then shakes out his fingers and tips his head, looking at her just a bit off-center, his gaze seemingly focused over her left shoulder. “That was…”

“Static,” she mutters, staring at her own hand. It doesn’t  _ look _ — she doesn’t know, burned? She’s pale as ever, though, no blemishes or marks that she can see. “My fault, probably. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says graciously, like there was nothing out of the ordinary about what had just happened. And maybe there wasn’t anything strange there, maybe Michaela just needs someone to knock her the fuck out so she can move on from today. “Have a nice day!”

It takes her a solid fifteen minutes once he’s left to realize she hadn’t given him his change.

“Mother _ fucker _ .”

__________

She’d write it off as another product of her shitty, shitty day and care not at all about the significance of it, but it… keeps happening. 

Two more customers brush hands with her and two more times they both got shocked. Then, when she’s on her way out, so, so ready to bury her head in a pillow and possibly never emerge into the light of day again, she closes her hand around the door handle and — her whole hand this time, a bright burst of pain, electricity crackling over her skin, but now it isn’t quite  _ pain _ . Or, it’s not as painful as before, like the shock has diffused across her hand, up her forearm, dissipating quicker. 

She doesn’t have the chance to dwell on it, because Emmett’s taking over her position at the register and she does not want to get sucked into a conversation with him, well-meaning as he is. (He’s in college, too, which he likes to remind her about whenever possible, but he can’t seem to grasp that he’s eighteen and she’s twenty-four and that their experiences weren’t really the same at all). So she shoves aside the prickle of worry at the back of her neck, decides very promptly that she’s imagining things and slips out onto the street, hands stuffed deep into her pockets and her breath crystallizing in the air as she makes her way home.

Then she’s inhaling a cup of ramen, speed reading (i.e., skimming) through an article for her modern graphics class tomorrow, and internally freaking out about no less than five separate and completely unrelated problems. It’s her greatest talent, and also the reason she averages four hours of sleep a night. Why had she wanted to go back to college again?

By the time Michaela is ready to start on the logo project that’s due Friday, it’s eleven at night and she’s drained three cups of absolutely disgusting coffee, so she’s looking at little to no sleep. Again. Hurray for her impulsive nature and inability to course-correct even when she knows she’s fucking herself over and careening right into a terrible decision. She’d always heard her twenties would be the best time of her life, and wow, so many people had lied to her, it’s not even funny.

Michaela drops heavily into her armchair (which she’d stolen off the sidewalk and felt no shame whatsoever about), dragging her laptop off the coffee table and into her lap. She’s buzzing, her skin too tight. Her mouth’s gone dry despite the coffee and she feels like the absolute last thing she should be doing is sitting down, but she isn’t going to go for a run at eleven o’clock at night in Hell’s Kitchen. Her brain betrays her on a nearly daily basis and she’s failed more tests than she can count, but she isn’t  _ that  _ stupid. Taking one year of karate when she was eight does not mean she has any business defending herself, so she isn’t going to stick her neck out just to run off the jitters, thanks. She’ll distract herself with schoolwork and maybe take a couple of laps around her tiny shithole of an apartment. 

That’s the plan, at least, until she sets her fingers down on the keyboard and the laptop abruptly goes up in smoke.

Michaela shrieks, her hands tingling as she tosses the laptop onto the ground, watching wide-eyed as it spits out sparks like she’d dumped a bucket of water over it. That… is not normal. Neither is whatever the hell is going on with her hands because they’re tingling, yeah, but it’s more than pins and needles; they feel  _ charged _ , staticky in a way that’s far from the harmless  _ zaps  _ you prank people with. 

_ What the fucking fuck?  _

The smoking laptop is a lost cause, or not one worth pursuing right now, anyway. And her hands, well — she could, uh, go to the emergency room? Would they even take her in for something like this, whatever  _ this  _ was? Does she need a therapist?

That’s a stupid question. Who  _ doesn’t  _ need a therapist? Michaela doesn’t want to meet that person, honestly.

Why is she daydreaming about the emergency room, anyway? She doesn’t have health insurance. Hell, she’d nearly had a panic attack when she woke up in the hospital in the wake of the Avengers bagging another bad guy; not because she was  _ in  _ a hospital, but because she’d have to  _ pay  _ for _ being in a hospital _ . Which was a nightmare worse than death, really, and god, can’t Tony Start just cover everyone who ends up bruised and broken after they save the day? She’s grateful the Avengers are around, she is, New York wouldn’t exist without them, but the man has literal billions of dollars. Hospital fees won’t even make a dent in his gold-plated wallet, or whatever. 

_ Focus, Michaela. Weird electrical shenanigans take precedence over lingering bitterness towards Tony Fucking Stark.  _

Yeah, there would always be time for that. Just not right now.

Michaela jabs a toe at the laptop, which responds by coughing up another round of sparks, so she draws her legs hastily onto the chair and cowers there for a minute, then flings her hands out away from her body. The tightness in her chest is a warning she doesn’t need, and she forces herself to breathe as evenly as she can, hoping to stave off the inevitable anxiety attack for a little while longer. 

She flips her hands over, fingers splayed wide. Her careful breathing hitches. She’s always been pale despite her more colorful heritage, but not to the point where her veins stand out glacial blue against her skin. And she’s kidding herself if she labels the blue, arcing  _ lights  _ beneath her skin as veins — that’s electricity, or something like it. Something almost… alive, right there, writhing even as she watches, snaking through her palms, and when it reaches her fingertips, sparks fizzle in the air just beyond her bitten-off nails.

_ That’s  _ about when her panic hits the wall, too big for her chest, and she lets out a sharp, broken breath that  _ coincidentally  _ coincides with all of the lights in her apartment — and, she’ll learn later, her entire complex — blanking out with a high-pitched whine.

Somehow her awkward failure of an encounter with the cute office worker doesn’t seem like such a big deal anymore.


	2. chapter one | vigilante buddies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Devil of Hell's Kitchen is actually a pretty nice guy. Who knew?

Vigilantism has been on the rise in New York for a while now. 

The media has a typical love-hate relationship with the small-time heroes, extolling them for their efforts to combat the ridiculous crime-rate in New York City one minute, condemning them for their flagrant dismissal of the law and reckless endangerment of civilians the next. Michaela’s hardly surprised; they’ve been treating the Avengers the same way since the Battle of New York, and Tony Stark has been getting fan- and hate-mail in droves since he announced to the world he was Iron Man in 2008. 

So, not surprised, but a little baffled by the semi-professional mood swings. People on the street are much more consistent, honestly, with most of them pretty damn happy to have Daredevil, Jessica Jones, and Luke Cage around, because they take care of the problems that don’t make it onto the Avengers’ radar. She distinctly remembers an article from months ago that detailed one mother’s account of how Daredevil rescued her son from a kidnapping attempt while they were on their way home — she’d said, explicitly, that without him, she didn’t think anyone, the police or the Avengers or some well-meaning attempt at a citizen’s arrest, could have brought her son home. 

Spider-Man is kind of tricky, though — Michaela’s seen the videos of him, swinging between buildings and webbing up petty criminals, and that  _ voice  _ he uses is so obviously fake that she can’t help but assume he’s young and trying to hide it. Which is. Upsetting, to a degree. It’s probably not great if Spider-Man is out there risking his life dangling from high-rises in Queens when he might not even have his driver’s license. 

Granted,  _ Michaela  _ doesn’t have her driver’s license, but, well, it’s  _ New York _ , alright, and at least she’s old enough to get drunk off her ass on cheap convenience store alcohol if she feels like it.

(She’s been feeling like it a lot, lately, but that’s not the point)

But, she supposes, either way it’s the guy’s choice what he does with his… powers. He’s got powers, right? What with the clinging to buildings and shootings sticky webs from his wrists… it could be technology, but she’s never seen anything like it if that’s the case. She’d taken a day trip to Queens to meet up with friends a few weeks ago and she’d seen first hand what those webs are like in real life, and, wow, they’re pretty fucking strong. She hadn’t been on the receiving end or anything, but she and her friends had sat and watched for an amusing twenty-some minutes while a would-be car thief attempted to extricate himself from the webbing sticking him to the car. The one he’d been trying to steal. 

She has to give Spider-Man props, for whatever it’s worth; the guy gets results.

Michaela is… not as impressive with her track record.

She’s musing about just that, actually, as she sits cross-legged on her cramped balcony, chin cradled in her hands while she pouts down at the police-radio in front of her. She’d gotten it from her cousin, who isn’t really her cousin, and who has definitely been arrested more than once. He didn’t question why she wanted it, just traded it to her for thirty bucks and a promise that she won’t rat him out for growing his own weed in the community garden. 

It’s been a solid two months since Michaela blacked out her apartment complex, and while life hasn’t necessarily gotten any easier for her, she’s having less and less panic attacks about the whole thing. That’s a win in her book. Finals came and went, and she scraped by, netting a few Bs and a handful of Cs that said, more or less, that she at least wasn’t wasting her time with college. It’s not like she wants to work at  _ Cody’s  _ for the rest of her life, though she’s having her doubts about how good of a graphic designer she’s going to be, practically speaking. Her professors think most of her designs are derivative, and they’re constantly telling her she needs to draw more on her own inspiration, not on the media she’s consuming on a daily basis.

Like it’s that easy. Ugh. She went light on her course load this semester, at least, so she’s only dealing with two classes for the next few months. Much less stressful that way. It’ll take her a lot longer to get her degree at this rate, but hell, she waited until she was twenty-three to even apply for school, seems only right she’s gonna be thirty by the time she finishes it. 

In hindsight, that impulsive decision to try and become a famous singer at eighteen was not the right thing to do, and honestly she can’t really blame her dad for basically disowning her. What a dumbass child she’d been. What a dumbass adult she still  _ is _ . Sitting here in a faded, worn-out hoodie and clingy sweatpants, desperate for some kind of interesting chatter to come over the radio so she can prove (to herself, if no one else) that she’s worth something.

And to alleviate some of the boredom that comes with less classes and no increase in shifts, but she’s keeping that one close to the vest.

Still, she’s not getting anything from the radio right now, so she switches it off and tucks it into the empty planter attached to the railing, layering it with a few seed packets so it’s mostly hidden in the dark. She doubts anyone would steal anything from her balcony, of all things, but even if someone were so inclined, the radio isn’t any great loss on her part. Her cousin probably has another one, and if he doesn’t… patrolling the streets might actually help with the acute restlessness she’s been feeling since she developed her powers, or whatever really happened. 

Turns out, when you’re actively coursing with electricity, you don’t like lazing around all that much. Michaela has to burn off energy one way or another, and when it’s not ( _ carefully _ , lest she have a repeat of the laptop incident) charging her phone, it’s running around Hell’s Kitchen like the dumbass she’s now fully committed to being. It’s not as likely she’s going to get murdered these days, though, so it’s not  _ as  _ ridiculous as it could be. But it’s by a slim margin, so she doesn’t make a point of bragging about it. 

Patrolling, though. She can work with that.

Micheala adjusts the hood of her sweatshirt, ensuring that she’s getting maximum coverage of her face, then tugs up the scarf she’s got tucked into the neckline, hoping it masks what the hoodie doesn’t. She could get an actual mask, probably, but like hell is she going near anything like Captain America’s — the man is gorgeous, no two ways about it, but that cowl is so damn  _ ugly _ . And sort of impractical, if she’s being honest. How effective can that actually be as a helmet when it doesn’t look all that dense? Then again, he is a supersoldier, so maybe he doesn’t really need it… but that just raises more questions than it answers, and it is  _ really  _ not what she should be thinking about currently.

Down on the streets, she takes a moment to breathe in the night air, quirking a smile at the minute, inconsequential sounds of life that drift around her. Cars  _ whooshing  _ past, the occasional splash of a puddle being disturbed; people, few though there are, chatting to one another, distant shouts from the local bars and clubs. No one looks twice at her despite how absolutely shady she looks, which is one of the reasons she’s both grateful for and a little horrified of New Yorkers. These are the people who bounced back from an alien invasion like it was nothing; they’re definitely not to be underestimated, but they also might not be the sanest people in the world. Michaela loves them, truly, loves being one of them.

It’s probably why she took her sudden evolution of powers as well as she did. 

Uh, for a given value of  _ well _ , anyway.

She walks even though she’s itching to pound down the streets at a full-out sprint, because while night-running isn’t any more likely to earn her suspicious glances, it’s not all that conducive to casing the streets in search of people who need help. Again, she doesn’t have a great track record with this hero business, and she’d kind of like to prove the one reporter who straight-up called her a “knock-off Thor” wrong, so she needs to get some more exposure here. 

_ How likely is Jessica Jones to kick my ass if I show up at her agency and ask for some advice?  _ It’s a non-zero chance, so Michaela should probably shelve that idea for now. 

It’s also probably just her luck that the first real chance she gets at protecting the peace, she gets upstaged by the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Michaela knows her neighborhood. It’s not a place you move to to raise your gaggle of children, partly because the school system is in dire need of a drastic overhaul, partly because of all the fucking gangs. Gang violence has gotten slightly better recently, what with the uptick in vigilantism, but it’s by no means been wiped out. Victims are still all over the news, bars get shot up on a semi-regular basis. Which means Michaela only flinches a little when the first shot rings out from across the street.

Her first instinct is to cower behind the parked car beside her and call for the police, but, when she started this whole hero gig, she promised herself she’d act as her complete opposite while she was “in hero mode.” Because the last thing she needs right now is to have her name connected with the wannabe Thor throwing not-quite-lightning around Hell’s Kitchen, and she figured, since the chances of running into someone she knows at least tangentially is pretty high, that acting as unlike herself as she possibly can would go a long way in making sure she doesn’t get recognized. So  _ that  _ means she does the exact opposite of her instincts and steps boldly out into the street.

Plus the police have a horrible response time in this area and there are definitely non-powered civilians out here with her, so. She can do this. Probably.

Here’s hoping?

It’s about what she expected when she really gets a good look at what’s going on. Five men, three of them in matching leather jackets (she hasn’t heard of the Jackals, personally, but it sounds like a gang name so she’s going with that unless proven otherwise), two in more nondescript clothing but similar color schemes. Four of them have guns out, one of which just recently fired into the pavement in front of the fifth’s feet. Ah, shit, this is territorial, isn’t it? God, Michaela doesn’t understand gangs in the least, what’s even the  _ point _ ? 

Well. Not like she’s trying to sympathize with them.

Michaela takes another step forward just as the arguing starts. She doesn’t pay attention to the specifics, concentrates more on their movements, their positioning. She’s got no training to speak of, but her instincts about people have served her well enough over the years; she can tell these men are dangerous, but that’s mostly to each other — it remains to be seen whether or not this’ll turn ugly, and Michaela hopes to avoid the violence altogether if she can help it.

“Boys, boys!” she calls out cheerily, and three heads snap around to stare at her, their eyes narrowed incredulously; the other two remain staring at each other, which is understandable given the still-smoking gun between them. She carefully removes her hands from her pockets, palms out, smiling behind her makeshift mask so her eyes undoubtedly crinkle at the corners. Not that they should be able to see her eyes, but it’s all about selling the  _ act _ , okay, it’s necessary. “What’s the problem here? Why can’t we all play nice?”

“I’d get outta here if I were you,” one of them, the tallest one, narrow shoulders and tattooed up to his fucking eyeballs, warns her, gesturing with his gun. Which. Not the safest thing he could be doing, since she’s fairly certain the safety isn’t on, but, well, she didn’t really expect anything less. “This doesn’t concern you.”  
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, buddy. What happens in Hell’s Kitchen very much concerns me, because I live here, and I’m not all that keen on seeing more blood on the streets. You know? It’s a hygiene thing, really.”

That gets two of them turning their guns on  _ her _ . She swallows, quick and hard. That’s not what she’d call progress but it’s something, anyway.

She hasn’t gone against anyone all that violent before. Helped an older man get his briefcase back from a mugger who was barely out of high school, fried the electronics in a car that was in the process of being stolen. Simple stuff. Guns haven’t been involved up until now and she can’t say she’s all that thrilled about it. But she wraps that bravado around her like a shield, turns up the wattage of her invisible smile, and lets the lightning crackle between her spread fingers.

The guns waver for a second or two. More than one of them pales a little, their faces creased with uncertainty. She’s  _ not  _ Thor, that much is obvious just based on her size and general femininity, but she’s  _ something _ , and that’s enough to give them pause. 

Then one of them scoffs and says, “Fuck, I’ve heard about ‘er, she’s nothing. Packs as much punch as a toaster oven. Just shoot her and get it over with.”

Well,  _ hell _ , that’s unflattering. A toaster oven? Come on, she’s gotta rank a little higher than  _ that _ . A  _ toaster oven _ . This dick definitely got that from the guy who called her a knock-off Thor. Fuck that guy, fuck him sideways. What’s he done to help the city out—

The second shot whizzes just past her right shoulder and effectively cuts off her inner monologue. 

Her brain takes half a second to reboot, but then she’s dodging to the side as another shot rings out, her whole body alight with electricity even if it’s keeping itself internal for the time being. She can feel it zipping around her muscles, making everything contract, tighten, but it’s not hindering her, she realizes, it’s letting her move just a  _ smidge  _ faster, makes her reflexes just a little more fine-tuned. It sure as hell saves her from getting gut-shot once one of the other assholes has turned his gun on her and she dives just in time to avoid the bullet, tucking into an instinctive roll and coming to her feet just behind the haphazard group.

They’re not completely aligned in their interests — while they want to get rid out her, they’re not letting the rival gang members out of their sights, so they’re just distracted enough that she can make a grab for the closest man. And — okay, she hasn’t really tested this out, and she doesn’t want to  _ kill  _ anyone, Jesus, so she dials down the shock factor as much as she consciously can when she slaps a hand to the exposed skin of his bicep, which still elicits quite the scream as the jolt runs through him. The smell of burnt skin hits her hard and she feels bile in her throat but she pushes it down as the guy wrenches free of her, dropping to his ass on the street, his gun skittering a few feet away from both of them.

The other four are watching her when she thinks to look back up. Reevaluating the threat.

That’s when all four remaining guns are pointed at her. Fuck.

But that’s  _ also  _ when some red-suited figure launches themselves from a nearby fire escape and tackles one of the gang members to the ground, and before Michaela can react (re: let out an unholy shriek) they’re on their feet again, whipping out a baton and cracking it against another man’s knees, taking him down. The third and fourth barely have time to jerk their guns around before the baton’s knocked them out of their hands and the new arrival has thrown themselves into some kind of ridiculous spin-kick combination and laid them out flat on their backs. All five of the gang members are groaning on the ground, some of them bleeding, all of them relieved of their weapons, and the red-suited figure is barely out of breath.

Michaela would be insulted if she weren’t so damn stunned.

“Uh,” she says with all the eloquence of the toaster oven she was accused of being. “Daredevil?”

Because this has to be him, right? The suit’s a dead giveaway. Matte red and black in places, clearly made up of some kind of body armor, with the telltale horns on the mask that covers the upper half of his face. Horns, Christ, what was he thinking? Then again, it’s not like she has a right to be criticizing the fashion choices of the man who more than likely just saved her life. 

(She’ll still think it, but she won’t say it to him. That’s fair.)

“That’s what they call me,” he says, in what is a very casual tone for a man who just beat the shit out of four armed men without breaking a sweat. He cocks his head, studying her, from the lingering electricity zipping around her trembling fingers to the (rather disappointing) mask. Or, she thinks that’s what he’s looking at; the eyes on his mask are opaque, she can’t see through them and in the back of her mind she’s gotta wonder how  _ he  _ sees, but, one-way eye holes aren’t really that far-fetched compared to her, you know, emitting sparks from her body like a… fuck, a toaster oven that’s been dropped in the tub. 

She’s going to die mad about that remark, she knows it. It’s way more insulting than the Thor thing.

“Well,” she says after a pause in which Daredevil kicks the guns further away from the whimpering men at his feet, “it’s nice to, uh, meet you. Since we’re sharing this part of New York, apparently. Vigilante buddies, and all that.” Fuck her brain-to-mouth filter for never doing its goddamn job.

This is not the time to make bad impressions! She might need him to save her ass again! Michaela is so out of her depth with this hero shit, honestly, she does not need to ostracize the only other hero she has a decent chance of running into while she’s out and about. 

All is not lost, though, because he cracks a smile that isn’t anywhere near as condescending as she might’ve assumed. “Right, vigilante buddies. Have you tried that one on Jessica Jones yet?”

Michaela flushes, because this basically proves that if she ever meets Jessica Jones she’s going to get thrown through a window. “Haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her,” she says to cover the spike of embarrassment. She swears his smile widens a fraction, though, so clearly she’s not doing too great at the whole conceal, don’t feel thing most heroes have got going on, even with hiding her face as best she can. “You think she wouldn’t go for it? I mean, you, me, Luke Cage and her — and Spidey, even if he is all the way in Queens… we should form a club, don’t you think? Exchange numbers, do each other’s hair, spill all the best places to stash bad guys until the police can get ‘em.”

“I haven’t met her, either, honestly,” he says, which is… surprising? She was kidding about the club thing, but shouldn’t the small-fry heroes stick together? “But her reputation precedes her, and I’m not sure she’d go for the enthusiastic approach you’ve got going for you.”

Michaela lets out a breath, almost a sigh, and shoves her hands back into her pockets. At this point, even with the sparking she can’t quite control, her body’s gotten used to the constant electrical stimulation, so she’s not shocking herself anymore. It’s a blessing and a curse, because now she can’t always tell when she’s about to electrocute the microwave until it’s pretty much happened. She does not have the budget to be replacing all her household appliances on a weekly basis, and once again she finds herself envying Tony Stark and all his ridiculous, somewhat offensive wealth. At least he’s channeling a lot of into the Avengers these days.

“Figures,” she says with a self-deprecating grin that he can’t see. “Guess you’ll do for now, fellow vigilante buddy. Speaking of that, what am I supposed to do with these—”

She’s not really aware of when he moves, because his reaction time is stupidly better than hers, but one moment they’re happily chatting (on her part, anyway), shooting the superhero shit, the next he’s grabbing her and spinning her to the side, at the same time kicking a foot into the gun that was  _ about to fire at her back _ , sending it flying into the alleyway next to them. The shooter, the guy she’d  _ thought  _ she’d taken down herself, gets a second to blink at them, wide-eyed and red-faced with pain, and then Daredevil’s knocked him unconscious. Just like that.

Michaela is going to have quite the breakdown when she gets home tonight, that’s for sure.

“Thank… you?” she squeaks out, very conscious of the hands wrapped around her waist, of how close she is to his masked face, and of how unaffected he seems. Like this is routine, like he squares off against gun-toting baddies so often that it’s become second nature to just roundhouse kick them into submission. So, so out of her depth here, she might as well be swimming in the goddamn Marianas Trench.

“Vigilante buddy tip?” he says, only releasing her after he’s double-checked that the other gang members are out of commission. His mouth tilts into something of a teasing smirk. “If they’ve got guns, get them away from the guns, and don’t turn your back on them unless you’re sure they won’t be causing any more trouble.”

She nods briskly, bobbing her head not unlike one of those birds that dips its beak into water at regular intervals. She’ll remember that.

“Don’t worry about these guys tonight,” he says, drawing her attention away from the man who nearly shot her and back to his face. “I’ll take care of them. Go home.”

She’s grateful that he doesn’t give her some line about rethinking her stance as a vigilante, because that would be kind of really hypocritical of him, and also wouldn’t do a damn thing to change her mind; it’d only make her angry, truthfully, because it’s not like she hasn’t thought about this. About the risk she’s taking by coming out here every night and actively looking for trouble like these guys. She could die, she  _ gets it _ , she does, but. She has these powers. What else is she going to do with them, become a human phone charger and have people pay by the hour? It’d be a lucrative business, sure, especially at festivals and concerts and the like, but she wouldn’t be  _ doing  _ anything real with her powers, would she? And that’s a little more selfish than she’s comfortable with.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll do that,” she says, grating the words out past the lump in her throat. Go home, she can handle that, definitely. “Thank you, really, so much for… for everything tonight.”

Another smile. “I’d say any time, but I don’t think you want to end up in this situation too often.” He pauses a moment, clearly mulling something over, then says, “You might want to work on long-distance fighting. That electricity of yours is great in close-quarters, but… Keeping your distance is smarter. Just another vigilante buddy tip for you.”

She snorts a somewhat hysterical laugh and nods again. “I appreciate it, Mr. Karate Man. I’m sure you excel at keeping your distance yourself, huh?”

He just keeps smiling, and Michaela does not have the energy to deal with him anymore, so she takes a breath, nods to him, dutifully ignores the unconscious men around her, and heads for home.

The next morning there’s an article that says Knock-Off Thor and Daredevil have teamed up to protect the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, and Michaela fries the coffee maker for the third time that month. 


	3. chapter two | make or break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaela's first real solo outing as a superhero.

It becomes glaringly apparent that Michaela can’t continue on without some sort of — she hesitates to use the word  _ costume  _ but the only other term that really applies is uniform, and she’s not sure she’s disciplined enough for that to work for her. She’s seen Diego from the store  _ twice  _ now while out on patrol, and god, she’s starting to feel bad for haranguing the Spider guy about his voice because she plummeted her own into an octave that made her sound like she hadn’t spoken aloud in a year just to throw him off the scent. Her current get-up isn’t doing it for her anymore, likely never has contributed much to her image anyway — sweats aren’t as good as hiding her figure as she thought they’d be, and the hood-scarf combo gets in the way more than it ever really helps her.

She doesn’t want to go to Daredevil’s lengths (while his suit is badass, it’s… gimmicky, and not her style; he’s just so  _ on the nose  _ with it) but she’d like to maybe go a step farther than Spider-Man, who may also be relying on sweats but has a color scheme and a sigil going for him. Michaela likes his look, and yeah it could be improved upon, but who has  _ money  _ for that? 

Which, where the fuck did Daredevil get his body armor from? That shit is custom made for sure, and unless he made it himself… well, it’s not like she knows him. They’ve crossed paths a few more times in the aftermath of the gang shootout, sure, but they don’t stand around and chitchat. So maybe he’s secretly a billionaire like Stark, or. She would say funded by the government but, uh, that’s unlikely, especially seeing as the news has been covering the grumblings of Congress over the validity of a group like the Avengers. 

All this to say, she’s in desperate need of a wardrobe change.

She’s thought about it, considered her options. Luke Cage and Jessica Jones don’t hide behind catchy hero names, and from what Michaela’s seen of them in the news, there’s no costume protecting their identities, either. They’re not so much flaunting their powers as… reminding the world that they exist, that they’re  _ people _ , and Michaela respects the hell out of them for it. But she can’t do that. She needs the alter ego, the barrier between her everyday life and the time when she’s removed from that, doing what needs doing as best as she can. 

God, her sanity wouldn’t last two days if she pulled a Stark and just screamed that she’s… well right now she’d be admitting to acting as Knock-Off Thor, because those assholes in the news have yet to give her a less insulting moniker. She’ll work on that — she has  _ plans  _ for that fucking reporter, so many plans. 

Unfortunately, for all her wishful thinking, the opportunity for a costume upgrade doesn’t magically drop into her lap. So she shelves it for the time being, puts her energy into the problems she can solve right now. Namely, figuring out why Glasses has been coming into  _ Cody’s  _ so often.

It’s been a while since she first saw him, three months maybe, and she can’t recall him ever coming in before that. So it’s mildly strange that he’s started visiting with any sort of consistency.

Michaela has her days, but when it comes to this, she’s got her head on straight. He’s not here for  _ her _ , like romantically. From the chats they’ve had while she’s ringing him up and trying not to offensively trip over his blindness in conversation, she’s pretty sure he’s got the hots for… Karen, the woman’s name is Karen, but Michaela hasn’t been able to piece together whether she’s his secretary or what. 

Glasses, aka Matt Murdock, is a lawyer, alongside his partner Foggy Nelson (who came in with him once, and Michaela had to admit that her throwaway assessment of him had been right on the money — he’s  _ nice _ , charmingly so, and he and Matt are clearly thick as thieves; their gentle ribbing of each other nearly gave her cavities it was so cute). Karen is there, in their firm, but she juggles a lot of tasks, apparently, and assists on cases when she can, so Michaela doesn’t feel right relegating her to  _ secretary _ ; sounds like she’s a lot more important to their work than that. 

That doesn’t mean she’s ragging on secretaries, Christ, but. 

Michaela rolls her eyes. How she manages to put her foot in it inside her own head, she’ll never know.

But Matt, who actually insisted she call him that when they introduced themselves properly after the third time he’d walked up to her register. Matt’s an interesting guy. Funny, just as charming as his partner. So incredibly Catholic, and Michaela’s still not sure how they got onto  _ that  _ topic, but they did, and Matt had just laughed when she processed that information for a solid half minute, then blurted out that she’s agnostic and she really, really hopes he doesn’t think she’s going to Hell. It was, understandably, not her finest moment, but at least Matt, still laughing a little to himself, assured her that he wasn’t about to try and convert her. Besides, he’d said with a sly little smirk that Michaela kind of wanted to smack off his face, he didn’t have his Bible on him. Can’t do any Bible thumping without the good book itself.

He’s a little shit sometimes and Michaela, categorically ignoring all her instincts and warning signs, finds herself looking forward to his visits with the sort of pathetic longing that’s reminiscent of a regency novel heroine. 

Karen’s a thing, though, and even if she weren’t in the picture Michaela wouldn’t actually, you know, make a move, or whatever. Matt’s a good guy, and he’s not intimidatingly handsome (unlike a few heroes she could name, good lord, is being supernaturally gorgeous a requirement for joining the Avengers?), but Michaela doesn’t go for lost causes. Matt’s not interested in her in a romantic sense, so that’s that.

Now if only she could explain why the  _ fuck  _ he does his weekly snack runs at  _ Cody’s _ , she’d be golden.

She counts herself lucky that today isn’t a Matt Murdock day. What with all the nighttime shenanigans she’s been getting into and the projects she’s been busting her ass to finish on time, she’s even more sleep deprived than usual, and there’s a disturbingly high chance that, regardless of any lessons on social etiquette she’s had drilled into her over the years, she might have just demanded he tell why he comes in so frequently. And there’s also a high chance he wouldn’t have just laughed that one off.

The shop’s quiet for the last hour or so of her shift, which she considers a blessing. She’s gotten better at not deliberately shocking customers, but it happens still sometimes and she’s over having to paste that customer service smile on over her more natural grimace and apologize for all the accidents. Plus that means she’s limiting her chances of snapping at someone for trying to sneak a bag of chips out in their pocket or their purse. It’s like ninety-nine cents, and Michaela knows these people can afford it! They might actually exist just for the sake of making Michaela’s life into a facsimile of Hell — that’s her running theory at the moment, and no one’s around to dissuade her from, so that’s what she’s sticking with.

Well, until Emmett walks in, cheeks ruddy from the cold and mouth stretched into a high-wattage smile that Michaela just knows means trouble. For her, specifically, because Matt Murdock might not interested in dating her, but the same cannot be said for this baby-faced freshman who has yet to learn what it looks like when a woman wants nothing to do with him.

The customer service smile makes a return appearance as she’s untying her apron and hanging it on the hook behind the register. Emmett either can’t tell the difference or— No, actually, she’d bet money on him not being able to discern a fake smile from a real one. He’s naive like that, in a way that would make a nicer person want to coddle him, but for Michaela it just makes her want to chuck him into a trash can,  _ Mean Girls  _ style.

For reference, she was  _ not  _ a bully in high school. But that doesn’t mean the urge to shove Emmett into a nonexistent locker is any less real.

“Hey, Michaela!” Emmett calls cheerily as he dons his own apron, side-stepping neatly into her space before she’s had the chance to move out from the register. Michaela internally groans and wishes to holy hell that Lucia was on the roster today, because Lucia respects personal boundaries and also doesn’t smell like she spends all her time in a men’s restroom that happens to be fully stocked with Axe body spray.

That… might be too harsh, but whatever, Michaela stands by it. Her sinuses are so not happy with being this close to Emmett; it’s about ten times worse than stepping through the perfume cloud at any given Macy’s.

“Hey, Emmett, you’re here early.” Ten minutes early. Theoretically this wouldn’t be a problem; Michaela could clock out a little earlier herself and be able to stop by the deli on the way home to grab dinner so that she’s not stuck eating ramen for the third night in a row. Practically speaking, though, this is all because Emmett has a very obvious crush and Michaela may actually break out into hives if he’s early because he wants to act on it. “How’s… school.”

Shit, now is not the time for polite chitchat; she blames her over-tired brain for spitting out the first nicety it could think of instead of giving the universal nod of  _ I-acknowledge-your-existence-but-don’t-want-to-socially-engage-with-you-please-have-a-nice-day.  _ Typical.

Emmett outright  _ beams _ and seems to move even closer to her, their shoulders nudging together. “School is awesome! One of my professors apparently goes way,  _ way  _ back with Tony Stark, so like, we’re gonna get to tour Avengers Tower and maybe  _ meet the Avengers _ . I might get to like,  _ touch  _ the Black Widow. How fuckin’ wild would that be?”

As a newly-minted hero of the super variety, Michaela can say with certainty that none of the Avengers, the Black Widow least of all, would appreciate this kid making grabby hands at them. The Black Widow might feel inclined to pull that thigh-choking maneuver on him, which— no, no, that’s bad, that would probably be a reward for Emmett. He’s mentioned he likes strong women, but she’s come to realize he likes  _ physically  _ strong women, you know, the kind that could literally kill him. And hey, no kinkshaming here, people are free to enjoy whatever they like as long as it’s consensual, but. Uh. Emmett might actually die if he tries to put a hand on the Black Widow. Not ideal.

“Wild,” she parrots back to him, at a loss for words, and not for the first time around Emmett. “Alright, well, that sounds exciting, but I gotta get going. Long walk back to—” Nope, not giving out even the general area of her apartment, not to this kid. “The subway,” which is a pitiful lie,  _ Cody’s  _ a block away from the nearest subway entrance, but Emmett just goes all doe-eyed at her, pouting, the whole nine yards, so clearly he’s not making that connection. “See you tomorrow, have a good shift.”

She’s gotten good at navigating the landmines that are conversation with Emmett, so even though he tries to extend their talk while she’s gathering her bag and striding for the door, she just hums to show she’s heard and doesn’t verbally respond. He gets the hint, but it’s literally right when the door is closing behind her, calling out, “Bye, Michaela! Sleep tight!”

It’s 7:00 pm but okay, sure. She’ll sleep tight and make sure to double-check that all her doors and windows are locked down tight.

And that would be the end of it, probably, except Michaela lingers at the crosswalk, shifting on her feet restlessly as she waits for the light to change. She’d risk jaywalking but she doesn’t exactly trust many of these drivers to make much of an effort to avoid her, so. Waiting it is. 

She’s content with that (or content as she can be when her body has been practically screaming at her to  _ run now goddammit  _ for the last six or seven hours), until some commotion stirs up behind her. The slam of a door, a high-pitched yell, tires screeching across the asphalt as someone slams down hard on the brakes. Michaela twists back on her heel, scanning the street for any sign of a threat; no car accidents, thank the  _ lord _ , but there’s a small crowd gathering across the street from—

The shop. What the fuck.

She was curious, initially, in that morbid way most people have — something bad happens, you turn to stare at it. But that ingrained response has been subtly changing since she got her start in the hero gig. Now when the curiosity strikes she goes on alert. Adrenaline starts trickling into her bloodstream, and she moves without thinking, doubling back the way she’s come, close enough that she can get a look into the store through the glass panelling of the door.

There’s Emmett, behind the register as he should be, but he’s got his hands up, his face stricken, and—

Michaela really, really hates guns.

The growing crowd has at least a dozen cellphones on hand, so she leaves them to call the police as she ducks into the alley two stores down from  _ Cody’s _ , slinging her bag off her shoulder the moment she’s out of their sightlines. Fuck, she doesn’t have her scarf with her, had gone for her fluff-lined jean jacket instead of a hoodie this morning. She turns her bag inside out, desperate for something to hide her face; a myriad of useless shit clatters to the ground, her wallet, a notebook with illegible scribbles she keeps for godforsaken reason, what appears to be a half-eaten granola bar sans wrapper (gross), and — there! She snatches up the bandanna that must have been scrunched into a ball at the bottom of her bag and unfolds it, scrutinizing it for usability.

A few weeks back she’d gone to the gym under the guise of wanting to “bulk up” for superheroing, but, well, things hadn’t gone all that smoothly. She hadn’t done anything too stupid, like lift a shit-ton of weights without a spotter, but she  _ had  _ ramped up the settings on the treadmill by kind of… a lot, and subsequently face-planted on the scratchy gym floor for all the gym bros and some non-specific deity to gawk at. She’d worn the bandanna as a headband to catch most of her sweat, then promptly forgot about it when she decided the gym was not for her.

She grimaces now, staring at the bandanna. Wrinkled, which isn’t too bad, but the sweat soaked into it had dried and it feels  _ rough _ , and also smells… about as bad as Emmett. Ugh. Her sinuses are going to murder her in her sleep tonight, cut off her air supply or something as vengeance for all the indignity she’s put them through today. Nevertheless, duty calls for sacrifice, so she quickly folds the bandanna and ties it around the lower half of her face. She also ditches the jacket and tucks it and her bag into the indent between two trash cans, hoping they’ll be safe here until she can retrieve them. 

The store doesn’t have a back entrance, but the storage room does have a window that can’t lock (it’s been broken for as long as Michaela has worked there, and for once she doesn’t want to strangle Cody for it), and Michaela jimmies it open with only a short string of curses and one broken nail, which she magnanimously ignores in favor of getting a foothold in the chipped brickwork of the building and hauling herself through the window.

The storage room hasn’t been cleaned in approximately thirty years, and there’s an inch-thick layer of dust on everything from a Kermit-green armchair that has no business being in the back room of a convenience store to the overflowing shelves of plastic-wrapped bags of chips and questionable energy drinks. Closer to the door is where they store things that generally make it out into the store, and the dust there is still visible but ranks lower as a health code violation. Michaela stifles a sneeze as she eases the door open a crack, peering out.

It’s a straight shot from the front door to the storeroom, the aisles and the register bracketing a clear stretch of floorspace that’s meant to make is easier to unload deliveries. Right now it lets Michaela see the ski mask-wearing asshole currently holding up  _ Cody’s _ , gun pointed squarely at Emmett’s pale, sweaty forehead. Fuck. Emmett’s a mess, fumbling to empty the register while the asshole barks orders at him. He’s not hurt though, from what Michaela can see — she’ll take what good fortune she can get with this level of fuckery.

She takes a deep breath. No point in delaying this, staying in here any longer isn’t going to magically wash away her nerves. So. In the immortal words of Shia Labeouf:  _ just do it _ .

Scratch that — Michaela’s just thought of a less suicidal plan.

Propping the door open with a stray can of Cambell’s soup, Michaela shuffles around along the edge of the room until she nearly knocks her head into the breaker box. She doesn’t know jackshit about electrical engineering, or anything really beyond knowing to flip breakers when the lights cut off, but hey, she figures if she sticks her sparking hand against the wiring something exciting will happen.

She’s not wrong.

Michaela lights up a hand and presses her palm to the breaker box’s innards — there’s a  _ pop _ , some sizzling, sparks fly like confetti, and then the store is plunged into darkness. Someone out front shouts, something breaks, glass shattering into tinkling fragments against the ground. Two gunshots but no answering cry, which Michaela takes a good enough sign to slip out from the storeroom and — Daredevil said she should practice long-distance fighting, right, so why not start with some target practice?

There’s enough ambient light from the front windows that Michaela can make out the hulking silhouette of the asshole, because, she assumes, Emmett had made the executive decision to hit the deck once the lights went out. Michaela skulks forward, low, her steps careful. The asshole swings the gun from side to side, as if expecting someone to pop out of the aisles behind him, or maybe Emmett to make some grand heroic gesture. As it is, she can tell he hasn’t noticed her yet, and she takes advantage of that, letting lightning spring to life in her hand again, arcing between her fingers, the noise of it high-pitched but soft, muffled. Barely enough to make you turn your head—

Michaela lets the lightning go at the same time that the asshole swings the gun in her direction. It’s like it happens in slow motion — blue streaks of electricity uncoil from her hand, lancing across the space between them; she sees them, just for a moment, flicker and stutter along their path, tendrils licking at the metal of the gun (too much plastic casing to properly draw it in, she thinks, distantly); and then impact. The asshole freezes where he stands, briefly lit up like a Christmas tree; he shudders, the gun falling from his twitching fingers, and then his body folds, knees smacking into the floor, before gravity does the rest and has him falling face-first next to his gun. 

She lets out a breath, her own shudder running through her, but she only allows herself a few seconds to get her bearings before she darts forward and kicks the gun out of reach. The asshole doesn’t look like he’s getting to his feet anytime soon, but she learned that lesson the hard way, and she won’t be making that particular mistake anytime soon. 

“ _ Oh my god _ .”

_ Oh my god _ , she thinks, jerking upright, her head snapping around to see Emmett peeking his head above the cash register, wide brown eyes sparkling with tears and panic. It’s dark, okay, it’s dark, the bandanna is on, he’s not going to realize who he’s looking at. Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak out—

“You- You’re… Knock-Off Thor!”

Michaela’s jaw clenches, her teeth grinding together. Damn that son of a bitch reporter.

“That is…” She hisses out a stilted breath. “Not my name. You can… you can call me Blackout.” What had her professors called her, derivative? So what, she caused two blackouts, the name fits better than anything else on the tip of her tongue, she’s going with it.  _ Kiss my ass, Professor Anders _ . 

Sticking around isn’t going to do her any favors; yeah, the police response time is shit but they’ll get here  _ eventually _ , and she needs to be long gone before then. Plus the longer she stays here, the more likely it is that Emmett will get past his shock and look a little closer at her and no thank you, not today. She’s been a vigilante for how long? No need to have her alter ego discovered just yet. And, speaking as someone who has seen entirely too many action movies, she really,  _ really  _ does not need Emmett to be her de facto love interest. Just… no. 

“Wait! Holy shit don’t leave me alone right now!” 

“You’ll be fine!” Michaela assures him even while she’s running for the storage room. Her voice, much to her chagrin, is pitched as low as she can make it. Her heart goes out for Spider-Man, it really does. “I would advise not, you know, going near that guy, or his gun, or, well, letting  _ him  _ get near his gun either. But he’ll be unconscious for a while… probably. You’ll be fine,” she says again, bright-eyed and quite glad that Emmett can’t see the entirety of her expression, because she is not smiling reassuringly. Closer to a tense, jittery frown, the kind you wear when you’re hopped up on too much caffeine, and that’s not good for morale, she figures.

She manages to make it outside, shuts the window behind her and rips the bandanna from her face, stuffing it into the nearest dumpster. It’s a short jog back to where she stashed her bag and jacket, and then she’s smoothing out the wrinkles, shuttering her nerves and quiet pride underneath a world-weary expression that best communicates that she is more than done with the world for the day. It’s not hard to fake, given that she’d been wearing the exact same expression about twenty minutes ago when she first walked out of the store, and it’s not like she  _ isn’t  _ done with the world right now. That’s just… overshadowed by the strangely giddy mix of emotions she has bubbling in her chest, the adrenaline still singing in her veins. 

Snug in her jacket, her bag secure over her shoulder, she lets herself break into a quick, fluttery smile before it all goes back under the mask as she skips down the steps to the subway platform. She did good today. Makes her think she’s not a total failure with this hero thing, that maybe she can make a difference like that.

Well, one thing at a time. And for her, the next step is getting herself a real bonafide superhero costume.

She might have to make some inquiries with Daredevil after all. His taste in costumes might be a little outlandish, but hell if she’s gonna argue that he works that dramatic flair just right. 


	4. chapter three | harry potter and the skirmish of hell's kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaela meets her first real villain.

Daredevil does not, in fact, have a convenient number she can call to order herself a badass costume. Superhero Amazon would be such a great service, though; someone should pitch that to Stark, let him provide for the less fortunate heroes running around New York.

Anyway, he’s apologetic about it, at least, letting her down easy; says his guy did him a one-time favor as repayment for… something Daredevil did. He’s sketchy on the details, but Michaela doesn’t hold it against him; people like them can’t exactly afford to reveal too many personal anecdotes, not even in the interest of getting to know their vigilante buddies a little better.

In a surprising turn of events, Daredevil also congratulates her for handling the attempted robbery at  _ Cody’s _ . Michaela, in true school girl fashion, flushes to the roots of her hair, faking a cough just for the excuse to spin away from him so she can hide what’s visible of her beet-red face. Why she’s embarrassed she doesn’t know; hormones, probably. They’re a bitch most of the time, they might as well try to ruin all aspects of her life when presented with the opportunity to do so. 

She’d ask him how he even knows it was her, but then it hits her — it’d been a slow news day, so the robbery, or lack thereof, made it to the front page of the New York Bulletin. Emmett’s testimony made her sound a lot more self-assured than she was, but he did work in that she calls herself Blackout, so at least the media has a genuine name for her now. No more Knock-Off Thor, or  _ toaster oven _ .

Well. From the Bulletin, anyway.

“Aw, shucks,” she says, kicking her legs out like the child she’s never quite outgrown, letting her heels thump back against the concrete of the building they’re perched on. She’d gone up here, climbed a fire escape and settled right at the edge of the roof, to give herself a moment’s pause, time to consider where she’s going to go from here. Daredevil came out of nowhere, silent as a goddamn shadow, said he was passing by and thought he’d check in with her. She certainly isn’t complaining. “I didn’t do all that much. I’m just glad I was there when it happened, ya know? Before anything went screwy.”

“That kid thinks you did a lot,” Daredevil says, with a flash of a smile that he directs at the cityscape around them. “Though I think he said your — what was his phrase? —  _ bedside manner  _ could use some improvement.”

“Okay, first, that is not applicable to the situation, I’m not a fucking doctor. There was no bedside by which I could be mannerly. Second, I made sure he was alright! I wasn’t  _ rude  _ or anything, just… maybe a little abrupt. I wasn’t looking to get arrested, thanks.”

Daredevil shrugs. “Hazard of the job. You’re never going to please everyone all the time. The important thing is that that kid isn’t hurt, and he got to go home to his family.” He looks at her, and though she can’t see his eyes his gaze seems more intense, grounding. She sits up straighter without consciously choosing to. “You did a good thing.”

“Feels kind of… I don’t know, selfish that I’m  _ happy  _ about what I did. Just. I’m not doing it to get thanked, that’s not why I… And anyway, I’m terrified every time I go out like this, so I. Ugh.” Michaela drops her face into her hands, huffing out a tired sigh. “Can you like, do your ninja thing and just sneak off while I’m not looking? Let me go back to gazing soberly out at the city like the Batman wannabe I am on the inside?”

She hears him laugh under his breath, then the scrape of his shoes over the concrete as he resettles his weight on the roof’s ledge. A gloved hand catches her shoulder and squeezes. “I actually have to head out anyway,” he says, and she peeks out from between the cracks of her fingers, sees him smiling again, this time looking her way. “But don’t be so hard on yourself. You did good, you can be happy about that. I’m not exactly the best example of an emotionally stable vigilante, though, so. You fit right in.”

Michaela snorts a laugh, wiping a hand down her face and leaning back on the other. “I heard Jones is a day drinker,” she says, though she’s careful to remove any judgement from her voice. She’s been drinking a lot more recently than she ever has, and she’s not special just because she makes sure it’s always after eight when she cracks open a bottle. “Cage seems like he’s doing well, though. Neighborhood loves him.”

“He also gets shot on a regular basis. Regardless of his bulletproof skin, that doesn’t seem like the healthiest of pastimes.”

“Okay, Spider-Man, then! He’s at least got the sense to wear a mask like us.”

“I don’t know enough about him to make a judgement call, but anyone who suits up probably has problems they aren’t dealing with.”

That gives Michaela pause. He’s right, of course; while there are truly selfless people out there in the world, she figures most super-powered people (and non-supers who join in on the fun regardless) have their reasons for doing what they do. Reasons that probably multiply the longer they stay in the profession. 

She hopes most of those reasons extend beyond kind of liking the adrenaline rush of a fight, as she’s beginning to. There’s a point where she’s past panic, past anxiety, when it’s — not fun, that’s not the right word, but.  _ Intense _ . It’s intense. And she thinks she could get hooked on that kind of thing all too easily.

Shaking off that train of thought, Michaela smiles at Daredevil, rolls her eyes a little as she gets to her feet. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, you go do what you gotta do. I’m heading home for the night, I think. You can—” Another pause. “How much… just like, hypothetically, how much do you think it would cost for us to get our own bat signals made? Because obviously we can’t seriously exchange phone numbers, but if you ever need an assist…” 

It’s far, far more likely that she’ll be the one in need of an assist, but Daredevil, like the gentleman he is, doesn’t point that out to her.

“We’ll think of something. For now, though, the neighborhood isn’t that big. I’m sure I could find you if I needed to.”

And with that, he hops the ledge and drops down onto the fire escape below, only a shadow now even when Michaela squints to watch him; a shadow, and then a smudge against the darkness, and then — gone. She bites the inside of her cheek, shaking her head again. He barely made any noise even when connecting with the rickety metal of the fire escape; he’s got serious skills and Christ, could she take a couple lessons from him.

It occurs to her, on her way home, that she still doesn’t have much an answer as to what to do for her costume. 

_ Well, I might as well make use of that graphic design degree I’m driving myself insane over…  _

___________

Two weeks later, Michaela has been a patron of three thrift stores, a Michael’s, and browsed some questionable websites, but she thinks she has herself a decent costume. Uniform. Whatever makes her sound at least thirty percent more dignified than she currently feels.

It’s not much, all things considered. Black nylon running pants because she’s, you know, going to be running. A lot. A black sleeveless jacket over a light blue-accented sleeveless hoodie, on which she’s stitched on a matching blue lightning bolt because she lives to be cliche. Comfortable black boots, again because of all the running. Black fingerless gloves and black arm braces. And the pièce de résistance? Kickass goggles and a black face mask for the lower half of her face. 

Granted, she bears a passing resemblance to the Winter Soldier, which is. Not great. But she’s hopeful that the rest of her gear is enough to detract from the fact that her entire face is hidden and that she might have possibly sort of borrowed some of her look from the greatest assassin of all time. 

With any luck she will never, ever run into Captain America, the Black Widow, or the Falcon while on the job, because even the possibility of one of them having an  _ opinion  _ on her costume gives her terrible indigestion and also makes her want fry her own brain.

None of this is really worth giving herself a migraine over, but it’s still in the back of her head as she’s slipping out of her apartment for the night. Again, she’s gotta give it to New Yorkers: no one bats an eye at her get-up. Sure, someone could mistake her gear for just a weird-ass running outfit, but more people than not can probably connect the dots, especially when she zaps a guy in the ass for trying to pee in public. She gets a cheer from a passing drunk couple for that one and the laugh she lets out is much louder than she intended it to be. 

It seems like it’s going to be a slow night for her. Aside from a few counts of 

public indecency that she awkwardly breaks up, and the occasional public pisser, she’s not finding anything that demands her attention. Maybe Daredevil took out all the baddies before she even stepped out of her apartment. There’s a thought — Daredevil single-handedly cleaning the scummy streets of Hell’s Kitchen, no help from Blackout required. He probably could, too, but. She’d like to help, if she can. It’s only right.

She’s thinking about turning in early again when someone shouts, “Blackout!”

Which is a helluva experience, really, because she’s never had anyone address her by her self-imposed hero name, and it takes her a second of  _ who, me?  _ before she thinks to pivot towards the source of the voice. There’s a woman, maybe her age, maybe a little older, waving at her from across the street, and she might think the woman just wants her attention to say hello or something if not for the creeping all-in-black figure coming up behind her, making a beeline for her from the alley behind them.

Michaela doesn’t overthink things, just yells, “Duck!” and throws a bolt of electricity over the woman’s head; she ducks, thank god, and the bolt — gets deflected, what the actual fucking  _ fuck _ ?

Michaela darts in to grab the woman by the arm, guiding her back and away from the, the man, she  _ thinks  _ it’s a guy, who simply stands there, arm extended, fingers splayed wide, with an intricately designed circle of golden light projected in front of him. Only it can’t be light alone because her electricity bounced right off it and struck the brick of the building to his right, carving out a sizeable chunk in the process. Clearly her electricity is working just fine.

Okay, so, regroup. A shield? Some sort of holographic tech but the holograms have physical substance? That’s… probably something Stark could invent, probably something he  _ has  _ invented, one weekend when he was drunk and bored out of his mind and surrounded by all his semi-sentient robots. 

The how of it isn’t important right now; Michaela’s much more interested in the  _ why _ . She gets the woman behind her, lights up both hands and plants her feet. He’s not getting by her, shield or no.

“No means no, dickbag,” she says, jutting her chin out at him, almost daring him to make a move. 

“He just, he came out of nowhere,” the woman whispers, her fingers clutching at the folds of Michaela’s jacket. “I could’ve sworn I was alone, but he…” 

“Call the police,” Michaela says under her breath, shifting her stance as the man takes a step towards them. “Call and then get the hell out of here. I’ll take care of this guy.”

The woman doesn’t need any more encouragement. Michaela tracks her panicked footsteps until the sound fades from her hearing, all the while keeping her eyes on the guy who's since dropped the main shield. But similar projections ring both of his wrists, spinning slowly, the glow they’re emitting brighter than anything on the street besides maybe Michaela’s own lightning. 

Gritting her teeth, she ups the voltage and brings her hands forward, the electricity crackling bright and loud and, hopefully, menacing. 

He’s dressed in dark clothes, his face obscured by a hood, though she thinks the clothes beneath the sweatshirt aren’t standard issue. The material doesn’t look familiar in the light of his projections, the shadows falling in all the wrong places. There are rings on both hands, gold and bronze, some of them inlaid with jewels. He doesn’t speak at first, but he does halt at the sight of her powers. Not surprised, necessarily, but contemplating. 

Michaela doesn’t appreciate the scrutiny.

She thinks she’s being sneaky, tossing another bolt at him without doing him the courtesy of warning him ahead of time like before. But she’s not fast enough, or he’s just plain  _ faster _ , throwing up another shield and redirecting the blast into the asphalt at his feet. Again, deflected; again, slashed apart into harmless, fizzling static by his shield. 

What the fuck. 

“What the fuck,” she hisses, falling back now that he’s insistent on closing the distance between them again. “What the fuck,  _ what the fuck _ . Who are you?”

She thinks he might laugh, but it’s drowned out by the shriek of lightning bursting futilely against his shield. Michaela doesn’t want him getting close enough for her to grab him, but she’s not making a dent this way and she’s running out of ideas at this point. Is this tech or someone else with powers? Either way he’s leagues above the assholes with firearms she’s squared up against so far, and she’s slowly realizing that she might be completely outmatched here. 

_ This is why I wanted that fucking Devil Signal!  _

“You gonna let me in on just what you were trying to do here?” she says, hands up and at the ready, even as she’s steadily backing away from his approach. “You’re not exactly some run-of-the-mill mugger with those things.”

He definitely laughs this time, low and gravelly. “No, I am not that, you’re right. I’m not average by any means, and apparently, neither are you. Blackout, was it? You fancy yourself a hero?”

“I mean, I’m no Iron Man or Thor” — un-fucking-fortunately — “but I do what I can with what I have. What are you? A Stark fanboy? Made yourself some fancy gadgets and now you’re taking them for a spin?”

The man stops in the center of the street, projections burning brighter for a moment before they disappear completely. Michaela’s brow furrows. “Stark and his toys. He wouldn’t know real power if—” He shakes his head, turning on his heel, angling himself back towards the alley. “I thought it was only that Devil haunting these streets. I’ll make sure to remember you the next time I’m in the area, Blackout.”

“Oh, hey, no, no, no, you’re not going anywhere—”

The blaring of sirens cuts through Michaela’s words, and she whips her head around, startled to realize that two police cruisers are rounding the corner, almost on top of them. On the one hand, great, she can wash her hands of this guy, let the police process him and send him to whatever jail they have for almost-supervillains, if that’s even what this guy is. On the other hand, they might want to arrest  _ her _ , and that’s not on her agenda for today. 

But when she looks back, the guy is gone. Vanished. No trace of him left. She blinks, stunned. She hadn’t heard him running or anything, maybe the sirens covered it, but. Shit. She does a perfunctory sweep of the streets, looking for any last glimpse of him, but no dice. Double shit. She can’t stay here, can’t explain to the police what just went down, and she’s not even sure they’d believe her if she could. 

Muttering curses to herself, Michaela makes herself scarce, extinguishing the light show so that they can’t track her that way as she launches herself into an alleyway, mentally mapping her way back home. She’s gonna have to make a few detours, just in case anyone is on her tail, which is going to be so much  _ fun _ .

She needs to talk to Daredevil, see if he’s met this guy before, because she is remarkably out of her depth here and she’s not afraid to admit to her failings, not this time. 

The only comfort she takes from this is that the woman made it out alright. Michaela clutches that information close to her heart all the way home, desperate for it to mean something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/184565443@N06/48760941458/in/dateposted/)
> 
> Here's Michaela's hero costume/uniform/outfit/whatever for anyone who's interested!


	5. chapter four | harry potter: the redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaela makes a new friend.

How desperate does she have to be to look up the address of Jones’ agency so she can pay her a visit and probably (pathetically) beg for her assistance?

Michaela’s research skills have, in the past, been compared to that of a rabbit — in that she tends to find herself falling into multiple holes without ever arriving at her prescribed destination. She starts innocently enough, Googling for anything that even remotely resembles the tech she saw the guy using, but after the fourth time she gets linked back to Stark Industries, she changes tracks. 

Searching for incident reports that match up with her encounter is a bust, too. Either no one’s gone to the police, or this guy is covering his tracks too well. And that’s just fantastic, just fucking great. Michaela nearly had her ass handed to her and she can’t even find the guy to return the favor. Or, well, call in Daredevil to return the favor. He’s quick, he could probably get a hit in on the guy before the shields came up. 

This is where the rabbit holes come in, though.

An hour into her search (all the while wearing rubber gloves so she doesn’t accidentally cause her laptop to combust again), she resurfaces for air, blinking the dryness from her eyes. And, yeah, what she’s been looking into has nothing to do with shield guy. She’s got about fourteen tabs open, all of them news articles relating to Daredevil in some way. And — and she’s more than a little ashamed of this one — a few about Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law. 

When the news broke about Wilson Fisk getting jailed, Michaela hadn’t cared much. She didn’t know a lot about Fisk as a person or a businessman because she purposely stuck her nose in her textbooks and ignored pretty much everything that didn’t pertain to her school or her work. But Nelson and Murdock had a familiar ring to it, though she’s only just now realizing why.  _ They’re  _ the firm that took down Fisk! Holy shit! Matt and Foggy (and Karen) are total badasses! How did she not know this before now? What’s more, all she’s wanted to do is give the three of them high fives or hugs, or, she doesn’t even know, she just wants to tell them how amazing she thinks the three of them are. 

Except Matt’s been absent from the store for a while now. Foggy came in once, about a week ago, more to socialize than act as a paying customer. Not that she minded. It was good to see Foggy, even if he looked like he was one sleepless night from packing it all up and moving out into the mountains to become the most educated hermit in the Catskills. He waved off her concern, though, said he and Matt had a hell of a case but they’re fine, really, no need to freak out or anything. Which was not as reassuring as Foggy probably meant it to be. 

And now Michaela is sitting cross-legged on her bed, laptop balanced on her thighs, staring at all the evidence of the shitstorms Nelson and Murdock have endured in their short lifespan as a legitimate firm. God, no wonder Foggy sends Matt out for snack runs; she can’t believe either of them ever leave the office even to sleep. Matt is also way too fucking chipper every time they see each other; if Michaela had a fraction of the stress he goes through she’d… probably combust on the spot, and she’s a  _ vigilante _ , for fuck’s sake. On top of being a college student, too. She knows stress, intimately, and she still can’t fathom how Matt and Foggy haven’t had like, multiple heart attacks yet.

Sighing, she leans back slightly, squinting at her fourteen tabs. This is not how she planned for her night to go. She’s gotta… get back on track somehow. Reluctantly closing out every tab that isn’t at least tangentially related to shield guy, Michaela pulls up a local news site. She can page through the recent additions, maybe watch the live feed for a while and see if she has any need to grab her suit. 

It turns out to be both the best and worst decision of the night.

Because as soon as she clicks on the link to the live feed, there’s that motherfucking  _ shield guy _ , glowing like he’s on his way to the nearest rave and walking into a bank like he owns the place.

She and Daredevil need burner phones or something, or smoke signals, or  _ something _ .

___________________

The good news: Michaela lasts longer than two minutes against him this time, and she even manages to clip his shoulder with a bolt of lightning.

The bad news: Michaela is so overcome with smug satisfaction at having clipped him in the shoulder that she fails to notice the  _ portal  _ he opens up in mid-air, that he then promptly shoves her through.

The badder bad news: That portal? Real deal. And it spits her out about two hundred feet above some random New York street.

Michaela screams, she’s not ashamed of it. 

She will, however, vehemently deny that she pissed herself, because she has  _ some  _ class.

___________________

“Uh, Miss Blackout?”

“That’s a little formal but okay, yeah, what is it, Spidey?”

“What were you even doing here? Aren’t you, um, usually on the ground?”

Michaela, from her undignified position dangling from one of Spider-Man’s webs a good twenty stories above Flushing Avenue, lets out a gust of a sigh. The winds at this height are bitter and cutting and Michaela is not dressed for this, okay, she doesn’t know how Spider-Man deals with it because his costume is not, from what she can tell while she’s close to him, padded in any way, shape, or form. Maybe that’s another of his powers — heat retention. Electricity burns, right? She’s gotta be able to make that work for her somehow, otherwise she is never going to survive a New York winter in her current costume. 

But that’s for another time; the Spider boy asked her a question.

“Would you believe me if I told you a wizard teleported me here?”

“A wizard?” Spider-Man squeaks, pausing in his attempt to hoist Michaela up onto the ledge he’s perched on, not unlike a sack of flour. He seems to be having about as much difficulty holding her weight. Yup, super strength confirmed. God, Michaela would kill for that, instead of the teeny-tiny boosts she gets from stimulating her muscles. She also notes casually that he doesn’t remember to deepen his voice. Teenage Spidey, also confirmed. Fuck everything. “Like, Dungeons & Dragons? Or more of a Gandalf?  _ Yer a wizard, Harry _ ?”

As much as Michaela was a fantasy nerd in high school, she has a feeling Spidey here could out-nerd her in every conceivable way. Cute. “He’s kind of in his own category. Although…” She considers for a moment, then nods. “DnD probably comes the closest. No wand or anything like that, just… whoosh-y hand movements.”

Spidey finally realizes he was in the middle of saving her ass and hauls her up the last ten feet or so, depositing her gently beside him. She scoots back the second she’s settled her weight on the ledge, tucking her legs in against her torso. She’s not afraid of heights, necessarily, but despite her banter with Spider-Man, her heart hasn’t stopped jack-rabbitting in her chest from suddenly plummeting out of the sky to her (then certain) doom, so she’s not taking any chances. Spidey would catch her again, most likely, but still. She might as well try not to be a useless hero while she’s got the kid with her.

This close, she can also tell that Spider-Man’s sweats are painstakingly stitched together by someone who was not particularly adept at hand-sowing. So probably he did it himself. His eye… things might’ve been lids to something once upon a time. She wonders idly if he sharpied the spider insignia onto the hoodie’s chest. 

“Is he dangerous?” Spider-Man asks, and  _ now  _ he’s back to the voice thing. What a shame, it’s a lot more difficult taking him seriously like this.

Michaela puffs out her cheeks while she thinks that one over, her gaze determinedly on the sky above her rather than the drop-off right in front of her. This high up, the sounds of the city aren’t nearly as deafening. “Yeah,” she says eventually. “Yeah, he’s dangerous. He just  _ whooshed  _ his arms and a… a portal, I guess, appeared? It looked sort of like when you twirl a sparkler in a circle really, really fast, that afterimage effect, ya know? But then I was looking through it and  _ down  _ at the street, and then he shoved me into it and I… well, you saw.”

She’d been damn lucky that Spider-Man was slinging around in the area, because she’d had no way of breaking her fall. She swallows, tipping her head back against the cold glass windows of the building they’re sitting on, letting herself feel the weight of her body, the chill spreading gooseflesh over her skin, the hiccupping sob that she won’t let past her windpipe. Just takes a moment to  _ exist  _ and adjust to the reality that she’s not dying just yet.

Spidey lets her have her moment, crouched next to her with his arms resting on his bent knees, head cocked to the side as a sign that he’s paying attention to her. She appreciates it, more than she could put into words.

When she can finally breathe a little easier, she says, “This is the second time I’ve seen him. I thought it was just, like, party tricks before. Special effects, some tech or something I couldn’t see. But nope, he’s a red-blooded wizard, and I don’t know what the hell kinda campaign he’s on but he’s been hitting banks and god knows what else in Hell’s Kitchen.” Micaela snorts quietly. “In  _ Hell’s Kitchen _ , of all places. Think you’d take those skills to Manhattan at least, rob the high-end stores blind and teleport yourself out of there waaaay before the cops get involved.”

“You want backup?”

Michaela eyes him curiously, a little awed at the sincerity in his voice. Now that she thinks about it, he kind of reminds her of an overeager puppy, looking for any and all chances to please. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, so she can’t quite staunch the smile that quirks at her lips. It makes her notice that she’s lost the mask over the lower half of her face between Hell’s Kitchen and here, which. Not ideal, no, but she doubts she needs to worry about Spidey recognizing her.

“You’ve got your hands full with Queens, Spidey, and I’ve already got a vigilante buddy back in Hell’s Kitchen.” She has yet to contact Daredevil about this wizard problem, but she’s working up to that. Besides, Spider-Man doesn’t need to know; he’s probably got school and family to worry about, she’s not gonna load another thing onto his plate. 

“Aw, but I don’t just protect Queens!” Spider-Man says, gesturing wide with both arms. “New York is my home, I can’t have a favorite borough.”

Michaela wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, okay, that’s where I draw the line. We’ve  _ all  _ got a favorite borough. You think Captain America doesn’t keep his heart in Brooklyn like the giant sap he undoubtedly is?”

“You think Captain America is a sap?”

“Uh, you ever do any reading on that guy? Like from the war? He’s a sap for Bucky Barnes. Or,” she adds, wincing, “he  _ was  _ a sap for Bucky Barnes.”

On a lighter note, she says, “Also that man stops to take pictures with people like all the fucking time. Especially if they have dogs. He’s tagged on Instagram and Twitter and Buzzfeed every other day.  _ Sap _ , of the extra-thick variety.”

That gets Spider-Man to laugh, which makes her preen, a little. 

“Point is, you’re good here. You’re  _ doing  _ good here. Don’t stop that on my account. But, uh, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a lift down to ground-level…?”

“I can do better than that, Miss Blackout!”

“Okay, the first time was funny but now it’s just weird—  _ holy shit please don’t let go _ !”

Michaela clings to Spider-Man with all her limbs and her face tucked into the crook of his neck, stifling the next scream by biting into the collar of her jacket, as this  _ child  _ grabs hold of her and  _ launches them down off the side of the building _ . There’s a terrifying few seconds of free-fall, the wind deafening all other sounds besides her blood roaring in her ears, and then there’s a loud  _ thwip  _ that must be Spider-Man letting loose one of his webs, and then the sudden body-shuddering jerk of them changing direction mid-air. It takes a considerable amount of her willpower not to flood Spider-Man with electricity, and he should be  _ thanking her for that  _ because her soul almost just left her fucking body, and oh my god she is never doing this ever again, fuck you, Spider-Child!

Spider-Man slings her all the way back to Hell’s Kitchen, laughing in her ear the entire time. If Michaela static-clings all of his clothes in retaliation, well, it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.

Where’s one of those godawful Captain America PSAs when you need them?  _ So, on the inside, you’re really a little shit _ — 


	6. chapter five | vigilante buddies united

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaela doesn't like to work alone.

The hour-long trip to Queens is not one that Michaela makes lightly. She goes occasionally with some friends from college but rarely ever by herself. It’s enough out of her way that she usually finds excuses not to go even if there’s an event or what have you that she’d been looking forward to. Half because she’s lazy, half because she’s not a huge fan of the subway despite being born and raised on public transportation. But today’s — not special, there’s nothing really marking it from any other day of the week, aside from the fact that she doesn’t have classes or work for once. It’s convenient, and it’s a trip she’s been meaning to make for a while now, anyway; her sky-dive over Flushing Ave just happened to be the kick she needed to get over whatever insecurities were holding her back.

Michaela likes Queens, to a degree. New York has a sort of  _ sameness  _ to all five boroughs that makes travelling from one to the other unremarkable, unless you actually give a damn about anything other than Manhattan. Queens probably has less crime than Hell’s Kitchen, so it has that going for it, too, and also, tying in to what Michaela’s actually  _ doing  _ here — it has its very own Spider-Child.

She doesn’t have much of a plan as she climbs the steps from the subway platform, shouldering past the usual assortment of oblivious business people and gaggles of tourists in what could generously be labeled an aimless direction. (She’s not going to get  _ lost _ , Christ, even if she didn’t have her phone on her it’s a  _ grid system _ ) Like, half of a plan. A quarter. Okay, she has maybe one eighth of a plan on how she’s going to both locate Spider-Man and convince him that they should band together, regardless of the distance between their home turfs. 

He’s friendly, though, and the kid’s gotta realize that as talented as he is, he’s still a  _ kid _ . Some extra help would not go amiss. He didn’t seem like the prideful type when she met him (brief though that meeting was), like he wouldn’t go that extra stubborn mile just to prove he’s capable of saving the day all on his lonesome. Which is good, ideal even, and it’s why Spidey’s her first target.

(Daredevil will  _ probably  _ agree seeing as how they’ve been batting the idea around already, and as for Jones and Cage, uh… that’s a work in progress. At least Michaela has the address for Alias Investigations should she ever, you know, get the urge to pop over and say hi)

Finding Spidey is the first step, regardless of the rest of her plan. On the ride over she considered the ethics of like, faking a disaster scenario to draw him out, but immorality aside, she needs to meet him  _ in costume _ , because she and Spidey have not yet reached the correct level of friendship to unlock her secret identity. Playing the distressing damsel isn’t all that conducive to that end, in part because Michaela has not mastered the art of the quick change and, in an unrelated note, almost snapped her ankle clean in half just the other day.

Anyway.

She’s not even sure what options that leaves her with. Climb a tall building and chant “Spider-Man” repeatedly until he appears, not unlike the summoning of a demon? With her luck, she’d just get fined for disturbing the peace, or some other bullshit reprimand. Spider-Man’s a kid, right? He’s in high school, probably. So — Michaela flips her wrist around, checks the time, squinting against the glare of the sun. Almost four. School’s been out for a while, then, but who knows if this kid does extracurriculars. Fucking hell, no wonder the Avengers all live together in that big, ugly tower — trying to make contact with other heroes is  _ exhausting _ . 

Maybe getting suited up would be a step in the right direction. At least that way Spidey can’t catch her unawares with her figurative pants down. Granted, this way he could catch her with her  _ literal  _ pants down, but, well. Sacrifices must be made, and all that.

(She really, really doesn’t want to scar the youth any more than she already has)

Michaela ducks into an alley, the epitome of superhero cliches, shucking her bag so that she can pull out her costume. She has the hoodie on beneath her jacket, at least, so she doesn’t have to resort to getting completely naked and risking getting some terminal disease from just being in contact with the inhabitants of the alley. Then it’s just a matter of switching out her pants, tugging on her boots, and making sure her goggles and mask sit right on her face. She takes a few minutes at most, but even then she has to say there’s probably something to Superman’s tactic of just wearing the whole getup underneath his suits or whatever. Uncomfortable but practical, she supposes. Still not really her style, but she’ll give the guy props for his commitment to the gig.

Adjusting her goggles, Michaela hauls herself on top of the closest dumpster, then makes a leap for the fire escape ladder, which. Ouch. The gloves take some of the sting away but  _ ouch _ . She hisses a curse to herself as she scrambles higher up, making her way towards the rooftop. Screaming for Spider-Man is  _ not  _ the plan, thank god, but she’s going for a higher vantage point regardless, on the off-chance he swings by so she can hail him down like a runaway cab. 

She’s running on three hours of sleep, alright, Michaela considers herself grateful that she’s not hearing things right now.

She settles herself cross-legged at the edge of the roof, leaning back against the ledge and twisting around to view the streets. She tips her head back after a moment, reaching up to rake a hand through her hair; she’s left it loose for this exact purpose, knowing she’d want the outlet for her restless, nervous energy. 

There’s a lot of things she could be —  _ should be  _ — doing right now, and getting on the trail of that wizard asshole is top of the list. But it’s not like she hasn’t tried; there’s still no chatter about him online that she can find, no suspicious activity in the news that can’t be written off as the product of gang violence or political corruption. She doesn’t even know if that woman made it home alright. This guy covers his tracks well, or more distressing, he’s left Hell’s Kitchen behind and become some other hero’s problem. This isn’t a pride thing — Michaela could care less who takes the guy as long as he gets taken care of. But this isn’t sitting right with her; she knows next to nothing about him and ignorance is dangerous in this line of work.

It sucks, but the best thing she can do is probably just keep an eye for him.

Michaela groans at the thought, both hands curled tight into her hair and pulling just this shy of painful. Fuck. Her heart’s racing in her chest just from thinking about the potential for this guy to royally fuck up her life, and she slides her hands down to press over her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. In for four seconds, hold for seven, exhale for eight. Rinse and repeat. It’s a well-trodden cycle for her, but recently there’s been the addition of  _ sparks _ whenever she exhales, crackling off her skin and singeing bits of her clothes. She’d care more, but most of what she’s wearing is black anyway, no one will notice unless they’re close enough to smell her. And by that point she’d probably have a whole host of other, more pressing concerns, so—

Something lands lightly on the rooftop next to her, and Michaela, in her haste to not look like she’s on the verge of having a self-induced panic attack, tries to rocket to her feet, has her foot skid out from underneath her, yells impressively on the descent, and — shockingly — falls right into Spider-Child’s disproportionately strong arms. 

“Ah, shit,” she says at the same time he exclaims, “Oh, whoa, Blackout—” 

She allows herself ten seconds to wallow in her ever-expanding depths of self-pity, then opens her eyes and blinks up at Spider-Man, who, even without his facial expressions being visible, manages to convey just how terribly worried he is about her. Michaela, who he’s met once under very unflattering terms. Who does not deserve this pure boy’s concern in the least.

“Don’t repeat what I just said,” she says, her mouth moving a little too fast for her brain.

She’s pretty sure he’s frowning at her, eyebrows drawn and everything. “What? Shit?”

“Yes,  _ shit _ , don’t cuss, or. I don’t know what I’m saying, but don’t look to me as a role model.”

He’s frowning  _ even harder _ , she swears it’s like she can x-ray right through the mask. “What?” he says again, equally as baffled as the first time. “ _ What _ ? I— I’m an adult! I’m not, you’re not a role model, we’re probably—”

“Spidey. That voice? The one you’re putting on right now? Terrible. Godawful. You sound like a thirteen-year-old chain smoker. If I didn’t already know it was fake I’d make a sizeable bet on it.” She blinks again. “Also that, don’t do that. Gambling. S’bad for you.”

“Did you…” Spider-Man glances away from her and then back, quickly. “Did you hit your head or something?” Teenage voice is back, though, so that’s progress in her book.

She waits until he’s awkwardly (yet gently) set her back down onto the roof, reminded (by her unnecessarily vindictive brain) that she needs to stop meeting him like this. And also Daredevil. Too many people can get the drop on her without exerting the slightest bit of effort and frankly she’s just insulted at this point. 

Then, when they’re more or less on even footing again, she nudges his knee with her own, signaling that she’s doing better, he can relax a little.

He does so, incrementally, getting more comfortable the longer she goes without suddenly falling over again or shuffling off this mortal coil altogether. She lets herself enjoy the warmth of his concern, smiling to herself under the mask. He’s a sweet kid. It makes her wonder, yet again, what the hell he’s doing swinging around between the skyscrapers when there are so many other heroes who could weather the burden.

Then again, she supposes the same could be said of her. Or Daredevil, or Jones, or Cage. They’ve all made the same choice, for whatever reason. Blinking again, Michaela sits up straighter, remembering just why she made her way over to Queens in the first place.

“Oh, so hey,” she says, knocking his shoulder with the back of her hand. “I’ve got a proposition for you, Spidey.”

“Are we just gonna skip over the whole—” He makes a confusing hand gesture, circling his hand a few times then sort of flicking it at her… everything. He’s practically radiating insecurity, like he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. God, fuck, this kid tugs at her heart strings.

“Yup.” Short, to the point, carefully devoid of the honey-sweet fondness that’s trickling down the back of her throat. She tries to inconspicuously swallow down her emotions and estimates she’s like thirty-three percent successful.

“Allllrighty, then. Whatever you say, Blackout. What’s the proposition?”

“Three words: Vigilante. Buddy. Club.”

“Can you… uh, say more than three words?”

Michaela laughs. “I can do that, sure. Lots more words.” She gets comfortable on the roof, stretching out her legs and crossing them at the ankle, hands folded casually in her lap. Beside her, Spidey does the same, pressing the soles of his feet together and leaning forward slightly, hands resting on his ankles. “New York’s got the Avengers, and they’re great, I love those guys.” Her misgivings about Stark aside, she’s glad he’s out there protecting the world alongside the rest of the Avengers. He’s a hero, through and through — just a very, very wealthy one. “But the Avengers sort of belong to the world, ya know? They can’t solve every little problem here, and we don’t expect them to. That’s where we come in.”

“I’m guessing you’re talking about more than just you and me,” Spider-Man says thoughtfully.

Her lips twitch into a grin. “You’ve gotta know about the other guys. Daredevil, Jessica Jones, Luke Cage.”

“Sure, I’ve heard of ‘em. Well, Daredevil and Luke Cage, mostly. Ms. Jones doesn’t wind up in the news nearly as much.”

“Yeah, something tells me she’s gonna be the hardest one to sell on this. Not much of a team player from what I’ve gathered.”

“Okay, so… you wanna make something like the Small-Time Avengers?” Spidey cocks his head at that. “Would we need like, a Bat Signal?”

See? This kid gets it.

“Don’t know that we need to go that far,” Michaela replies, stifling another laugh. She swings her bag into her lap and digs under her clothes until her hand closes around the phone she’d stashed in there earlier. She tosses it to Spider-Man, who holds it gingerly, turning it over in his hands. “It’s nothing special,” she says. “I grabbed it from a convenience store, so about as low-tech as you can get. But” — she waves an identical phone, and Spidey looks between them, nodding — “my number’s in there. Now unfortunately I can’t get here that all that fast, but call or text if you ever need the help and I’ll come as quick as I can. I’m planning on making the same offer to Daredevil and the others. Like I said, low-tech, but it’ll get the job done. Hopefully, anyway.”

Spider-Man is still studying the phone, mumbling to himself. Michaela waits him out, content to let him think things over in his own time. No rush, she doesn’t have anything important to get back to. Daredevil’s a nighttime hero for the most part, so he’s not gonna hit the streets for a few hours at least. She’ll try to find him tonight once she’s back in Hell’s Kitchen.

Movement at the corner of her eye catches her attention and she angles herself back, craning her neck. Her eyes widen. “Holy shit,” she says, like the hypocrite she is, which Spidey starts to point out to her, almost absently, until he twists to look at what she’s seeing and he says, “Holy  _ shit _ !”

That’s Iron Man flying past, a good fifteen stories above them, oblivious to the goings on the Small-Time Avengers right below him. The irony is hilarious, honestly, and Michaela has to brace her knuckles against her mouth so that she doesn’t let out an ungodly cackle. Objectively she knows she shares her city with the Avengers, and that she’s actually seen them in action before, but it’s still such a thrill to be so close to any of them.

From the direction he’s heading, Michaela figures Stark is on his way back to the Tower. She’ll check the news tonight, see if the Avengers made headlines anywhere. He might’ve been out for some innocuous reason but she’d rather keep herself abreast of the current events now that she’s involved herself in them. Sort of. Local current events, but still. What the Avengers do sets a precedent for heroes like her and Spider-Man; it’s good to understand what they’re doing and why they’re doing it.

Once Iron Man’s turned a sharp corner and disappeared from sight, she and Spidey look back at each other. He seems giddy all of a sudden, his grip on the phone tightening — it didn’t cost much but Michaela does hope he’s not planning on crushing it so soon after she’s given it to him.

“You a fan?” she asks, a hint of teasing in her voice that goes right over Spider-Man’s head.

“Iron Man saved my life when I was little,” he says, which. Uh. Not what Michaela was expecting, but okay, they’re sharing backstory now, that’s cool. 

“I can’t say that I’ve ever been personally saved by an Avenger, but I saw Hawkeye walking his dog in Bed-Stuy once.”

Spidey perks up. “Hawkeye has a dog?”

“Yes, and that dog is  _ adorable _ . Pretty sure I heard Hawkeye calling him Pizza Dog, which probably says a lot about Hawkeye’s home life, honestly. I think it’s a lab, or a mix, maybe, and he looks like he lost an eye, but. Yeah. Cute.”

“I wish I could get a dog, but my—” Spidey cuts himself off and coughs sheepishly. “My landlord doesn’t like pets.”

Michaela would legitimately love for this conversation to go another couple hours, but she did come here for a reason, and Spidey hasn’t said one way or the other what he thinks of her plan. So she says, “That sucks,” then, after a pause, “You in, by the way? Wanna get the Vigilante Buddy Club together?”

“Oh, yeah!” Spide-Man tucks the phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and holds his hand out for a fist-bump, which Michaela returns with no small amount of amusement. She’s not sure if he’s referencing the Wonder Twins or Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy, but either way she’s here for it. “Totally! This is such a great idea, and I was even thinking that I could make some adjustments to the phones, strengthen the signal, maybe work on a code system for us to use. And obviously I hope you can convince everyone else to join in but it’s nice to know there’s at least one person I can call if I need to.” He ducks his head, chuckling. “I haven’t been able to talk to  _ anyone  _ about all this hero stuff since I started and I was starting to go a little crazy with it.”

Michaela’s heart hurts, Christ. This kid needs all the hugs. “I got lucky,” she admits, sliding her own phone back into her bag. “I met Daredevil pretty soon after I decided to use my powers for something good and we see each other often enough that I don’t feel like I’m alone. But hey, that’s what this is good for — call me whenever you need to, or even if you just want to. Us vigilantes gotta stick together, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Spider-Man agrees, and they bump fists again. She’s pretty sure he’s grinning wide under the mask and she can’t say she’s any less ecstatic under hers. This is a good start to her crusade, and bonus, she feels a bit better about Spider-Man being a teenager; he’ll have someone, or better yet, multiple someones, that he can rely on, people looking out for him. 

No one should go it alone when it comes to this hero stuff. Especially not a fucking  _ teenager _ . 

Michaela is twenty-four and she feels a spry ninety-five when she measures herself against this kid. Just… fuck.

“Alright!” Michaela leverages herself to her feet and claps her hands together. “Well, this went better than expected. I hope Daredevil caves as easily as you.”

Spider-Man follows her as she drops down onto the fire escape, leaning down to watch her from the roof. “If all else fails, you can always yeet the phone at him and make a run for it.”

Michaela blinks, slowly straightening up so she can look at Spider-Man full on. “Yeet, huh? You still wanna pretend you’re  _ not  _ on the younger end of the millennial spectrum?”

Spider-Man points at her. “How do you know that wasn’t just me throwing you off the scent?” he says, in that chain-smoker voice she’s come to loathe.

Still, it makes her laugh, and she shrugs. “I’ll give you that one. Just this once, Spider-Child.”

“Spider- _ Man _ , c’mon! You’re on my home turf, you gotta respect the name!”

“When your voice changes  _ for real _ you’ll get my respect. Remember to call, Spider-Child! Eat your vegetables! Get home before curfew!” She’s at the bottom of the fire escape when she breaks out into that ugly kind of laughter where you can’t breathe and your stomach cramps and god, she has to lean against the railing, listening to Spider-Man complaining from the roof. When she can manage something other than wheezing air into and out of her lungs, she calls up, “ _ So your body’s changing. Believe me, I know how that feels _ .”

And Spider-Man lets out such a hilarious noise of contempt that Michaela nearly pitches over the railing in her fit of laughter. She’s seen those videos on YouTube and they are, without a doubt, one of the cringiest things she has ever had the pleasure of viewing with her own two eyes. Knowing this kid is young enough that he’s likely had to suffer through the mandated PSAs on a yearly basis absolutely  _ kills her _ . The horrors this boy has seen, the sheer  _ hypocrisy  _ of Captain America telling the country’s youth not to break the rules — Michaela almost wishes she was still in high school when he made the damn things, just to be able to say she witnessed them first-hand, on those crappy rolling-cart TVs that were only ever good for injecting Bill Nye into her otherwise boring school life. 

If Michaela ever gets to meet Steve Rogers, she’s going to have so many embarrassing questions for him. 

“I thought we were friends, Blackout! How could you betray me like this?!”

“We  _ are  _ friends! Blame Captain America, he’s the one who’s made those PSAs!”

Another noise, half-disgruntled, half-despairing. “Why would he  _ do that _ . I wanna be like Captain America but  _ not like that _ .”

Michaela reaches the ground, still cackling. “Aw, kid, you’re doing fine. Just do as Cap says and you’ll live a healthy, productive life, and your hormones won’t seem so scary anymore!”

This time Spider-Man doesn’t make a sound, but Michaela yelps as she’s forced to dodge one of his webs, instinctively releasing a burst of electricity that burns away the stray bits of webbing that almost splatter on her goggles. 

She can’t say she didn’t deserve that. Doesn’t mean she won’t be getting him back the next time she comes to Queens.

“Stay in school, Spider-Child!”


	7. interlude | that time michaela got mistaken for an asgardian princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title really says it all.

It’s one of those things that Michaela has dreams about, okay? Ever since the Avengers formed in 2012, she — like so many other members of their fanbase — has had dreams where she gets to meet them. Nothing risque or even exciting, really. Just little moments where she gets to introduce herself, maybe hang out with one of them like they’re friends. Most of the dreams start with her magically working in Avengers Tower for some unknown reason, though; they don’t generally take place on a mostly empty street corner of Hell’s Kitchen, and they sure as hell don’t involve her dressed as  _ Blackout _ .

But here she is, standing three feet away from Thor, Prince of Asgard, God of Thunder,  _ Avenger _ . Waiting for the light to change so she can make her way across the crosswalk. Because she spent  _ all of last night  _ out with Daredevil and it’s barely six in the morning and she’s not going to jaywalk at six in the morning. She’s liable to get run over pulling a stunt like that when she barely keep her eyes open. So she’s waiting. And so is Thor, for some reason. Next to her. In Hell’s Kitchen.

Michaela subtly pinches herself, just to check, and — nope. Not a dream. 

Fuck.

She’s not even sure he’s noticed her yet. He seems engrossed in his phone, which is. Not something she would have considered before now. Thor’s tech savvy? He’s been on earth for about three years now, on and off, so it makes sense that he’d familiarize himself with the technology that gets the most usage from the average person. Phones, computers, various household appliances. It’s just. Watching him… she thinks he’s playing  _ Words With Friends _ , and that opens up a whole other can of worms about who he’s playing  _ with _ . She’s thrown off, that’s the crux of it. It’s not something she expected to see today, least of all when she’s this sleep-deprived and sore because Daredevil didn’t slow the  _ fuck down  _ during his rooftop chase and she  _ had  _ to keep up with him and—

Ugh. She needs coffee. Really, really strong coffee.

That’s probably why, without her conscious consent, her mouth opens and she hears herself say, “You’re Thor, right?”

Thor — because it’s obviously Thor, why is that  _ even a question _ — looks up from his phone, turns slightly and squints down at her. Because he’s, you know, about a foot taller than her. She isn’t actually looking at him, no she’s staring straight across the street, willing the light to turn so she can sprint away from this awkward encounter before she can make it infinitely more awkward. The hand is mocking her, she knows it, refusing to change to the walk symbol just so it can watch her suffer.

From her periphery, she sees him smooth out his curious, questioning expression into a slight smile, and even that is blinding, what the fuck.

“Aye,” he says, “I am. And you are?”

She darts a look at him, internally panics about the possibility of him thinking she’s staring at him, then looks right back across the street. “Oh, I’m… I’m no one. I. I go by Blackout, but it’s not— I’m no one special or anything. Just.”

“Blackout?” Thor slaps a hand down on his thigh, which scares the ever-living shit out of Michela because it’s  _ loud  _ and she’s  _ dying _ , and turns his body to face her properly. “I’ve heard of your exploits! You valiantly protect this part of the realm, do you not?”

She’s dying. She has to be dying. Thor  _ knows who she is _ ? “I…” Michaela pinches herself again. Still not a dream. “I. Yes, I try to… protect Hell’s Kitchen. How do you know that?” She’s not proud of the high squeak of her voice when she asks that question but she can’t control it, so she lets it go. Mostly. She’s sure it’ll come back to haunt her years from now in some otherwise tranquil moment.

“Stark,” Thor says, like this is all very pleasant and normal, grinning and waving his phone a bit. “Or Iron Man, as I should say. He enjoys regaling the rest of us with any news stories that pertain to us, and he’s become quite fixated on this so-called  _ Knock-Off Thor _ .”

Oh, this is so much worse. So much worse. Not only does  _ Thor  _ know who she is,  _ Tony Stark  _ does. And it’s not much of a leap to assume the rest of the Avengers have heard of her, at least in the context of her being called a  _ Knock-Off Thor _ . “Oh,” Michaela says, with a calmness she does not feel in the least. “Does he now.”

Thor laughs. Laughs! This great booming thing that Michaela swears she can feel in her chest. “Yes. He finds it rather amusing, but I myself admire your efforts. And I’m curious as to where you came across your abilities, because they do sound somewhat similar to my own. Though without a weapon like Mjolnir, of course.”

Michaela’s mouth opens and closes without making a sound. How does she  _ answer that _ , oh god, she doesn’t even fucking know herself. 

“Forgive me,” Thor says, misinterpreting her silence for bashfulness, maybe, “I don’t mean to pry, and I did not mean to offend you if the topic is a sensitive one for you. You may keep your secrets, Blackout,” he says with another grin that makes her glad she’s still got the goggles on, because holy shit is it bright like the fucking sun. How do the other Avengers stand being in the same room with him without spontaneously combusting? “May I ask instead what you’re doing out here at this hour? I thought the stories confirmed that your heroics are nocturnal”

Michaela twitches. He’s still talking to her. What the fuck. 

It’s like she goes through a quick system reboot in which she is vehemently reminded that Blackout is not a timid antisocial bitch, but rather the exact opposite of that. So when she comes back online, she turns her own smile on Thor and says, “I’m just getting finished with my patrol, actually. Late night for me, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. What about you, though? Don’t think I’ve ever seen you around Hell’s Kitchen before.”

“Very true,” Thor says, chuckling. “I have not ventured to this part of New York before. But it’s for that reason that I walked here. Stark, Captain Rogers, and our archer, Hawkeye, are all much more familiar with this city, and I thought I should learn the realm I find myself guarding now. New York seemed an integral first step in that plan, given that the Avengers have made this city their base of operations. I offered for the Lady Romanoff to accompany me, but she said she knows the city well enough to get by, and that is more than enough for her.”

Another twitch. Oh, good. She avoided having to hold a conversation with Thor  _ and  _ the Black Widow. That’s something, at least.

“I’m sorry to say Hell’s Kitchen isn’t the most welcoming part of New York,” she says — or rather,  _ Blackout says _ . Because this sure as hell isn’t Michaela talking anymore. No, she’s checked out already, hiding in the far-flung corners of her psyche and talking herself down from a panic attack. “But I hope you’re enjoying yourself anyway. Hey, if you ever need a guide, I’m available. Or my friend, Daredevil, he knows these streets like the back of his hand.”

“Ah, yes, I have also heard of this Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. He’s accomplished much in his short tenure as a hero.”

Michaela practically beams. She’s proud of Daredevil even if she really has no right to be. The guy’s clearly insane, taking on the worst this city has to offer with mixed martial arts and a baton and nothing else, but Michaela’s happy to know him, happy to see what an impact he’s made on their community. “Yeah,” she says, and apparently  _ Blackout  _ is more than willing to show off the dopey smile she gets whenever she thinks too long or too hard about Daredevil, because it gets Thor laughing again and he claps a hand on her shoulder, albeit  _ gently _ . Still, the force of it rocks through her like a mini-earthquake, and she only just manages to keep her footing.

“Your admiration of him is obvious,” he says, though there’s no trace of mockery or condescension in his voice that Michaela can detect. “I hope he is as worthy a partner as he seems.”

“Oh, we’re—” Michaela pauses, side-eyeing Thor. Is she reading too much into this? He said  _ partner _ , so… crime-fighting partner? Like how the Avengers must be partners? Biting back a sigh, she says, “I mean, yeah, he’s great. We work well together.” An unexpected laugh tumbles out of her, and she rubs a hand over the mask, smiling ruefully to herself. “I say that, but it’s usually more like I’m his hapless sidekick, always getting myself into tricky situations that Daredevil has to pull me out of. But… yeah. Yeah, he’s a worthy partner. Whatever you meant by that,” she adds, nudging Thor’s arm with her elbow and instantly regretting it — he’s built like a fucking  _ rock _ , Jesus Christ.

Michaela is so glad they’re the only people on this street this early in the morning. She does not need her mortification documented by a dozen different Thor fangirls/fanboys. 

But, speaking of documentation…

“I meant nothing crass by my comment,” Thor’s saying, grinning in a way that suggests that’s  _ exactly  _ what he meant by it. Michaela can’t really bring herself to care. Thor gets about a hundred free passes in her book, simply because he seems so genuine. Plus, he’s a literal god, or as close to one as Michaela is ever going to meet. He can say whatever the hell he wants. “But I am glad to hear he passes muster nonetheless.”

Michaela huffs a laugh, digging through her pocket to pluck out her phone. She hesitates, turning it over and over in her hands, but then she sees Thor’s easy-going smile and relaxed body language and figures it can’t hurt to ask, at least. “Hey, Thor…” She really should have figured out if the guy needs some kind of honorific; he hadn’t used one for Stark, but Rogers got Captain and Hawkeye got his full hero name,  _ plus  _ he said the Lady Natasha. Well, whatever, too late now. “This is probably a little rude, or, I don’t know, presumptuous. But would you mind taking a picture with me? One of my friends thinks you’re  _ awesome _ and he’d be so jealous.”

“It’s no trouble at all!” Thor, much to Michaela’s surprise, brings out his own phone and easily thumbs to the camera app, flipping to the front-facing camera and crouching down so that he isn’t quite towering over Michaela anymore. She wordlessly slips her phone back into her pocket, confused but hey, she’s not going to question Thor. She just tugs down her mask and smiles, trying very, very hard to ignore the comforting warmth that Thor practically radiates, even dressed down in civilian clothes like he is. Thor’s smile is a fucking work of art when he snaps the picture, and Michaela just laughs when he asks if she’d like a do-over. No, no, she’s good, she’s  _ great _ , and also she thinks if she had to stand here any longer with Thor’s arm draped around her she will actually spontaneously combust and exist from then on only as a soot stain on the sidewalk.

“Shall I send this to you?” he asks, and Michaela blinks, looking down at her pocket. Her phone does receive picture texts, Spidey’s sent her enough memes for her to know that, but Thor having her phone number… Okay. Fuck it. Thor might be the least problematic person to have her hero number, and that includes Spider-Man.

“Yeah,” she says, warming to the idea more and more as the seconds pass, “yeah, please, that’d be great. Here, text it to…”

Text sent and received, Thor says that he’s scheduled to meet with Captain Rogers soon in Brooklyn, so he must be going. Michaela, slightly dumbfounded by the idea of him  _ walking to Brooklyn from here _ , wants to ask if he has the time to make it there, but then Thor — summons his hammer. And zooms away. 

Michaela pinches herself for the third time, just to be sure. Then she spends a full two minutes staring at the sky. Finally, she glances back to the street and realizes she has three seconds to run the crosswalk, so she fucking books it, because she needs to get to her apartment,  _ now _ . Maybe sleep for a week. That sounds good. Daredevil can handle patrols by himself for a couple nights, surely.

______________

It’s not even a full twenty-four hours later that the shit hits the fan.

Michaela, fresh from the shower and counting down the minutes until she has to get ready to go to work, hears the generic chirping of her hero phone that signals she’s gotten a text. Probably Spidey — he sends her the most ridiculous Avengers-based memes he can find, and she’s taken to sending the Rappin’ with Cap memes as revenge. They’re probably due for an exchange about now, so she doesn’t think much of it as she plops down on the end of her bed and fishes the phone from the pocket of her discarded costume.

**BLACKOUT** , reads Spider-Man’s first text. She squints. Okay, that seems a tad dramatic for memeage, but Spidey can be a dramatic boy.

_ Did someone else offer to feed you after you helped them out?  _ She’s told this kid time and time again that he comes across as the superhero version of a starving artist, it’s only natural that nice people will want to ply him with food.

**no no no**

**ok yes this little old lady bought me a pretzel**

**but that’s not y im freaking out!!!!**

_ Well then get to the good part Spidey  _

**do u have insta??**

Michaela frowns, setting her burner phone down to reach for her actual phone, which is charging on her nightstand. She taps into Instagram, and texts Spider-Man,  _ Of course I do. Am I looking for something specific?  _

**search for THOR!!!! **

With or without the five exclamation points, is what she wants to ask, believing the dryness of her response will come through the text nicely. But then she registers that he’s talking about  _ Thor _ and oh no, this can’t be good. Michaela types  _ Thor  _ into the search bar, and…  _ thorodinson  _ pops up as an account. A verified account at that. Thor… has an Instagram account. Okay then. That’s new information to process at a later date. She clicks on his account, skims his bio and profile pic (it’s him carrying Dr. Jane Foster and another brunet woman in both arms, which, that’s  _ a lot _ ) and then it’s like she’s been doused in ice water when she gets to his latest post. 

Oh. Huh. That’s — her. That’s Blackout, cozied up to Thor, smiling like the utter dumbass she is while he beams pure sunshine at the camera. She should have rethought that picture; she’s only just now noticing that she’s covered in scrapes and bruises, that there’s blood on her forehead above the goggles and staining the collar of her sweatshirt an ugly maroon. She, uh, she definitely looks like she just came from a fight, a fight she maybe-definitely lost. At least the swelling she’s experiencing right now hadn’t been a problem when they took the photo. 

(Emmett is going to have so many questions for her that all vaguely revolve around domestic abuse and she still hasn’t come up with a satisfactory answer to any of them. She has to ask Daredevil what he tells people, considering he constantly looks like he’s been run over by an eighteen-wheeler)

But. Thor. Thor posted this picture of them, and it has a mind-boggling two million likes, as well as thousands of comments that Michaela is sorely tempted to read, but going down that rabbit hole is going to be a lot less fun than her wikipedia excursions, so she’ll  _ hopefully  _ refrain from giving into temptation. 

The caption reads:  _ Had a fortuitous encounter with another of New York’s brave warriors _ . Generous, calling her a warrior, and also not calling their “encounter” the product of an overzealous fan being unable to keep her mouth shut. Also, fortuitous? Thor’s too fucking nice. They barely said anything of substance to each other, apart from Michaela basically admitting to her crush on Daredevil like the middle schooler she is on the inside. In fact, she’s just grateful that none of that conversation made it into Thor’s caption. Not that she thinks he’d be a dick about it, but maybe on Asgard it’s like, complimentary to announce a person’s crush to the world at large. And he’s a prince, so Thor could also be responsible for… announcing… couplings. Or something. 

Regardless, it could be worse. Michaela can admit that herself. It’s weird as hell that she’s featured on an Avenger’s Instagram and that literal millions of people know her superhero persona, but, well, people don’t know it’s  _ her _ , and she’ll take that. 

She’s just about to text Spidey and use this as an excuse to rub it in his face when her phone chimes again.

It’s a link this time, and in another text Spidey’s written,  **OMG READ THIS PLS**

Michaela does not want to read whatever this links to. At all. But she knows Spider-Man well enough by this point that to know he won’t stop sending this exact link, over and over again, until she responds to it with a genuine reaction. So she braces herself, decides that she can’t feasibly leave the country no matter how much she might want to, then clicks the link.

She blinks down at her phone. A tabloid, one of the trashier ones she sometimes sees in  _ Cody’s _ that gets bought way too often in her opinion. Given that this is pretty much clickbait, it’s not something she would generally peruse of her own volition, because she values her sanity and at least mostly cares about the truth when it comes to celebrities and the goings-on thereof. 

The title?  _ Baby Avenger!: Find out which Avenger went from superhero to superdad! The answer will shock you!  _

_ SPIDEY WHAT THE SHIT IS THIS _

**Y DIDNT U TELL ME UR THORS KID**

_ PLEASE TELL ME YOU DONT ACTUALLY BELIEVE THIS BULL _

**IT SAYS THOR CAME TO EARTH LIKE TWENTY YEARS AGO AND MET A GIRL AND HAD A KID AND THEN LEFT**

**THORS UR ABSENTEE DAD OMG**

_ SPIDEY I SWEAR TO GOD _

_ MY DAD IS FROM OHIO _

**R U SURE??**

_ YES I AM SURE  _

**CAN U LIFT THE HAMMER??????**

Michaela lets out a noise she’s never heard herself make before, at a higher pitch than she thought possible for the human vocal chords to emit, and flings the phone behind her, hearing the muffled thump of it smacking into her pillows. What the hell. What the  _ fuck _ .  _ What the fuckity-fuck _ . She was wrong, this couldn’t be worse. Blackout is never going to be taken seriously ever again as a hero. Oh god, oh  _ god _ , what does Thor think of this? What do the  _ other Avengers  _ think of this?

Her phone chirps again, twice in quick succession. Michaela drags her hands down her face, counts to ten in her head, then twists around and crawls over the bed to snatch her phone from the pillows. Spider-Man may be a child but if he says one more goddamn thing about this bullshit—

**Unknown Number: Daughter! I am pleased we have finally made contact after these long years apart! You must come visit me at the Tower so can we bond!**

And then a voicemail from Daredevil, the gist of which is:  _ I never knew you were royalty, Blackout.  _

That’s when Michaela screams.

She gets a warning from her landlord the next day to keep it down and two more texts from Spider-Man demanding to know if she can lift the hammer. 

She might be about to commit spider-cide. 


	8. chapter six | say hello to the devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Matt's POV and Michaela really gets the ball rolling on her vigilante buddy club.

Matt has to admit that he wasn’t sure about this “vigilante buddy club” when Michaela first brought it to his attention. He hasn’t interacted with Jones and Cage himself, but like he told Michaela, he knows them well enough by reputation. Cage might be amenable to the idea, but given his affiliation with Harlem he might not want to venture outside of his home town when it comes to heroics. 

But then she brings in Spider-Man.

“He’s a sweet kid,” Michaela says, from the sound of it while she’s texting someone, presumably Spider-Man. “Big Iron Man fan, _huge_. Super eager to please, too, which. Not the greatest quality to have in this line of work, honestly, considering how dangerous everything is. But I like his energy.”

Matt suppresses a smile, offering his hand to Michaela to help her from down the edge of the fire escape. She takes it without hesitation, but he’s also fairly certain she’s not giving him her full attention. Whatever conversation she’s having with the Spider kid must be interesting.

“You should have asked him to come,” he says once they’re both ground-level and heading in the direction of Jones’ office, which Michaela has helpfully pulled up directions to on her phone. “He might’ve been able to charm Jones into working with us.”

“We’re charming enough on our own, aren’t we? Plus I thought you said the enthusiastic approach wouldn’t get us anywhere with Jones.”

“I did say that, and I meant it. But you’re already willing to die for this kid, so maybe he’d inspire the same thing in Jones.”

“You’re saying that with disbelief in your voice because you haven’t met him. He’s a baby. An adorable, dorky, heart-too-big-for-his-tiny-body baby. I’m glad he agreed to work with me at least, that kid needs someone watching his back for him.”

“Alright, alright,” Matt concedes, lifting a hand in a show of peace. Either Michaela misinterprets the gesture or feels spiteful still, because she smacks his hand with hers _hard_, though judging by the hiss she lets out and the way she cradles her hand to her chest, his armored glove didn’t do her any favors. “Sorry,” he says, nudging her shoulder sympathetically. She mumbles _ugh I need better gloves _under her breath, which he wisely chooses not to comment on, and instead asks, “How much further?”

Michaela shifts next to him, taps again at her phone screen. “Another street over, and then it’s the complex on the—”

Matt pulls Michaela behind him, hearing but disregarding the huff of protest she lets out. He cocks his head, listening for the footsteps he just caught from what sounded like the roof behind them. They’ve stopped, but he can hear breathing, a third heartbeat — steady, strong. And then the footsteps pick up again, faster, a foot pushing off the concrete—

Someone lands on the ground not five feet from them, seemingly undamaged from the four-story drop. Michaela yelps, and Matt feels a tingle of electricity curl up his spine from the grip she has on the back of his suit. It’s harmless, just an unconscious reaction on her part, so he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t acknowledge the contracting of his back muscles, just takes in what he can of the newcomer.

Shorter than him but not by much, taller than Michaela; leaner than both of them, but significantly leaner than Matt. No increase in breathing, no change in the pattern; heartbeat as steady as it was on the roof. Leather crinkles and groans as they cross their arms, shifting their weight slightly. Ready to move at a moment’s notice.

“Oh,” Michaela says, and inches out from behind him, standing at his side. _Her _breathing and heart rate have both calmed substantially in the last few seconds, and without her having to do the breathing exercises he’s heard from her before. “Um. Hi. You’re Jessica Jones, right?”

Jessica Jones. Matt adjusts the mental picture he’s had of her up until now. Foggy had described her appearance to him once, from a photo in the paper, but she’s taller in person than he’d been expecting. 

“Mind telling me what the fuck you two yahoos are doing here? You’re trespassing.”

“That’s… harsh,” Michaela says. She’s still nervous, Matt can hear the threads of it in her voice, but she stands next to him and doesn’t waver. At least, not in any way the average person would notice. He’s not sure Jones is average, though, from what he’s heard of her. “You don’t own the whole block, do you?”

“You were about to come into my building, to my office, and I don’t remember inviting either of you. I’ve gotten people convicted for less.”

Matt… somehow doesn’t doubt the veracity of that. “Look, we’re here on friendly terms.”

Jessica _tsks_. “What a shame. I’m not in the market for more friends. The two I have are annoying enough as it is. So you and Baby Thor over there can get the hell out of my neighborhood.”

“Was it the Instagram photo?” Michaela asks quietly, mostly to herself — or at least, she’s not intending for Jessica to hear her. “Is Baby Thor better or worse than Knock-Off Thor?”

“Better,” he says after thinking it over for a moment. To Jessica, he says, “Not friends, then. Associates who occasionally work together despite their vast differences.”

Leather groaning again, Jessica’s boots hitting the pavement hard as she closes the distance between them. Matt lowers a hand to his baton. “You two can play Wonder Twins all you want, alright? I’m not interested in the whole playdate thing you’ve got going on. I work alone. It’s better for everyone that way.”

“Can I just…”

Matt reaches out to snag Michaela by the arm but she bats his hand away, stepping out in front of him so that she’s intercepting Jessica. Her braid whispers over her shoulder and back and he figures she’s turned to look at him, most likely glaring. His mouth flattens out. He agreed to come here because he didn’t think Jessica would present herself as a threat to the two of them. They’re on the same side, essentially, and it’s better to make allies than enemies with other enhanced individuals. But if Jessica wants to make this a fight, Matt isn’t going to just stand by and let it happen. 

Michaela turns back around, plants her hands on her hips. Her own jacket squeaks minutely at the movement. Matt tracks her heartbeat as she goes on, because the second her anxiety ratchets up he’s dragging her back to their turf whether she appreciates it or not.

“Jessica, I respect that,” Michaela says. Matt turns his head slightly, listening as she fumbles for something in her pocket. The phone? “I do. We don’t need to be buddy-buddy for this to work. I’m not asking for weekly meetings and sleepovers, we’re not gonna be braiding each other’s hair. This is just… a life preserver, or. A last resort if you really want it to be. You work alone, that’s fine, I’m not gonna be barging into your office to take up your time with bullshit. But if you ever need help? Call one of us.”

“I’d kinda have to trust you to want to call,” Jessica says dryly. “And I don’t know either of you. I also have trust issues. Go figure.”

“I get it,” Michaela says, her voice warmed with a hint of laughter, which — given the way Jessica twitches at that, hands tightening into the leather of her jacket — might not be the best course of action. But Michaela’s on a roll now and far be it from Matt to put a halt to it. So long as the violence levels don’t increase, he’s alright letting Michaela handle the situation. “We’re not at that level where we unlock each other’s tragic backstories. We might never be on that level. But just take the phone. You can take it apart, if you want. It’s not bugged or anything, no tracker, but you seem like the type of person who’d appreciate knowing that for yourself. So. Take it and do what you will with it. That’s all I’m asking.”

It’s quiet for a solid half minute. No one’s talking, anyway. Michael’s scuffing her feet, a little twitchy now that she isn’t trying to coerce Jessica into halfway allying herself with them. Jessica however is stockstill aside from the quiet grinding of her teeth. Then she moves forward and grabs the phone out of Michaela’s hand, which Michaela clearly hadn’t been expecting because she flinches, knocking her shoulders back into Matt. He steadies her, hands on her upper arms, and she mutters a quick thank you to him before straightening up again.

“One question,” Jessica says. She’s already flipped the back cover from the phone, so Matt guesses she’s taking Michaela up on her offer to inspect the thing for bugs.

“Yeah?” Michaela says.

“Daredevil. Is he your bodyguard or…? The relationship here seems unorthodox.” There’s a warning edge to her tone that Matt can’t quite decipher, but he picks up pretty quickly that she likes Michaela more than she does him. He’s not sure why but he’s also not surprised. 

Matt smiles and shrugs, feigning nonchalance. It’s worked well enough for him in the past, even better with the people who know he’s blind. There’s only so many ways to appear unthreatening while decked out in a devil-themed combat suit, though, and he can’t read how well it’s working with Jessica. “We’re partners,” he says, which gets an interesting reaction out of Michaela, who’s heart — which has been relatively steady since they got here — starts beating double-time in her chest. Because he said they were partners? That’s—

He drops that line of thought for now and refocuses on Jessica. “We have the same goals. Help the people we can, protect the city we both grew up in. Try to do good in a world that desperately needs it.”

“Oh, so you’re the righteous asshole of the duo,” Jessica says, and Michaela snorts, smacking both hands over her face like that’s going to cover up the sound she’s made. 

Matt lets himself smirk, because that’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. “If we’re the knock-off Avengers, I’m probably Captain America. I think that says enough.”

“Thor, Captain America…” 

“Spider-Man would absolutely love to be Iron Man,” Michaela adds, now openly laughing into her hands. “I think he’s got the tech skills to make it work, even.”

“Spider-Man?” Jessica says, and Matt has a pretty reliable hunch that she’s rolling her eyes. She sounds severely unimpressed. “That kid in the dorky costume from Queens?”

“I don’t think either of us can really make a comment about his taste in costumes…” Matt says.

“I traded out the sweatpants, at least,” Michaela mumbles, and Matt smiles, knocking their hands together in a show of solidarity. Her hand twitches at the contact. Matt’s smile slips a little, though he doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway,” Michaela says, clearing her throat. “You’d like him, I think. Kid’s hard _not _to like, honestly. He saved my ass already, so I’m willing to vouch for him.”

Right. She hadn’t told him, but Matt had heard about Spider-Man’s death-defying catch a few weeks back, when Blackout fell out of the sky with seemingly no explanation for her appearance in Queens. He wishes she’d talk to him about it, but he also knows he hasn’t been that forthcoming with his own personal problems lately — Matt Murdock hasn’t gone for a snack run in quite a while, because both Matt and Daredevil have been heavily preoccupied with the Punisher and the shitstorm he brought with him. Matt almost didn’t come with Michaela tonight because he’s been trying to track the Punisher, but Foggy convinced him that going with Blackout (who Matt hasn’t revealed as Michaela, because it’s not his secret to share) would be good for him in the long-term. Alliances mean backup, he’d said, and with the Punisher, you can never have enough of that.

Not that Matt’s planning on bringing Michaela in on that particular issue. She’s good with her powers, and she’d be an asset for sure, but Frank is a man who shoots first and asks questions never; Matt’s not letting him get within a mile of Michaela if he can help it.

“Oh! Shit, I do actually have a favor to ask of you,” Michaela says, digging into the opposite pocket and producing a crinkling piece of paper. This is new; she hadn’t mentioned _this _to Matt, either. He stays silent as she hands the paper over to Jessica. “I know it’s… not a lot. It’s barely anything. But this guy… I need to find him. He’s been laying low lately, but I’m worried that doesn’t actually mean he’s inactive. There’s been disappearances…”

“Yeah,” Jessica says, low, smoothing out the paper. “Those I’ve heard about. I’ve had a few people come to me hoping I can find someone for them. There’s no connection between the missing people, though.”

“And there’s no guarantee that this guy is involved, I know. But the first night I saw him, he was harassing this woman, and… fuck. I don’t know. I have a bad feeling about it.”

Jessica makes a low, considering noise, folding the paper over and stuffing it into her own pocket. “You’re lucky detective work involves a shit ton of guesswork and gut feelings, otherwise I’d just think you’re crazy.”

“I’d rather that be the case,” Michaela counters, but she’s noticeably less tense now that Jessica hasn’t dismissed her out of pocket. “But anything you can tell me… I’ll pay you, obviously.”

Matt frowns, knowing Michaela doesn’t have the funds to hire a private investigator. School and rent eat up most of her income. He’s about to interject, and say what he doesn’t know, but Jessica says, “Nah, don’t bother. I’m already looking into it, throwing you a bone won’t cost me anything. You’re helping me anyway, pointing me in a direction I hadn’t considered before. Consider it a professional courtesy.”

“Ah, okay, wow, that’s—”

“Don’t say nice. Just don’t say anything about it, actually. I’ll keep the phone and message you if anything comes up. That good enough for you, oh mighty Avengers?”

“That’s perfect,” Matt says, because Michaela seems like she’s reaching her limit with this endeavor. She’s more relaxed than she was, but the twitchiness hasn’t abated. She acts differently as Blackout, more open and engaging with people, but he can tell it drains her to do so, and she’s about ready to call it quits for the night. “Let us know if you ever need a hand. We’re neighbors, after all.”

“And this is just you two being neighborly. Right.” To Michaela, she says, “I’ll contact you with something eventually. I don’t know about the hero thing, but I’m good at what I do.”

“I trust you,” Michaela says, completely sincere. It’s not what Jessica was expecting to hear, but she doesn’t say anything to dissuade Michaela, just slides her hands into her pockets and turns to leave. Michaela and Matt don’t stop her, and soon her footsteps have faded from even Matt’s hearing causal hearing range.

“Well,” Michaela says, letting out a breath she’d been holding for the last few seconds, “that went better than I thought it was going to. She didn’t throw me through any windows, for one.”

Matt laughs, because _that’s _what she’d been worried about on the way here? “We never even made it to her office. No windows to throw you out of out here.”

“You’re right,” Michaela grumbles, “but I don’t appreciate the tone. It was a valid concern! You’ve got the whole ninja thing going on, but my reflexes are shit. If she wanted to toss my ass out a window, she could’ve done it.”

“Well, that didn’t happen,” Matt reminds her, subtly ushering her back towards their part of Hell’s Kitchen. “We got lucky. She likes you.”

“She does not. Didn’t you hear her? She’s got two friends and she’s good with that.”

“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you.”

“Ugh, whatever. You’re the charmer of the two of us, your stupid smile probably did it.”

Said stupid smile spreads across Matt’s lips. “What’s so stupid about it?”

“Everything,” Michaela says, deadpan. Then she shakes herself and says, “Okay, that’s Jessica and Spidey, now we just need to convince Luke Cage.”

“Let me worry about him,” Matt says. “You’ve got your other secret manhunt going on, I can swing by Harlem and try to talk him into the idea.”

Michaela pauses. Her hands scrape against one another; she’s wringing them together, nervous, he realizes, and picks up on the change in her pulse at the same moment.

“Are you alright?” he asks, gripping her shoulder gently.

She sighs, nodding. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine, I swear. I just, uh. I’m not trying to exclude you from this thing with the — fuck, I call him a wizard but I really don’t want to go into the reasons why I call him that. But you have a lot on your plate already, right? And I don’t wanna add to that if it’s something I can handle by myself.”

“Hey, don’t worry too much about that. That’s what this whole vigilante buddy club is for, huh? You go it alone until you can’t. Then you call for help. You’ve got Jessica on your side now, and the Spider kid. And you’ve had me. We’ll be here when you need us.”

“...you’re very wise for a righteous asshole.”

Matt grins. “There’s a reason people listen to Captain America.”

That gets her to smack his shoulder. “You’re _Knock-Off Captain America_, not the real thing. You’re persuasive, but not that persuasive. Captain Rogers could convince people to jump off a fuckin’ cliff, okay? He wouldn’t, but he could. You, on the other hand, you’re barely managing to get me to agree to let you scout Luke Cage by yourself.”

“So that’s a yes to me going alone to Harlem?”

Another sigh. “It’s a yes. Just be careful?”

“I can do that, as long as you promise the same while you’re chasing your wizard.”

“Yeah, of course, I do have some self-preservation skills.” She pauses. “Enough, anyway.” A slightly longer pause. “Actually, okay, I have more than you do, so there’s that.”

“That’s not—”

“You wanna tell me about fighting all of Kingpin’s goons again? Or the Russians? Or the fucking triads?”

“...point taken.”

“Now that that’s taken care of, let’s head back. I’m exhausted and for once I wanna get back to my apartment before dawn. So lead the way, Daredevil.”

Matt shakes his head, grinning, and does just that.


	9. chapter seven | knock-off thor vs. knock-off iron man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's like Civil War! 
> 
> ...except it's totally not. 
> 
> (Also, Claire is a character from a friend's (Ricecakes123) Wanda Maximoff fic, "Two of a Kind," but I loved her too much not to want to include her, and she agreed, so. Hope you guys love her as much as I do!)

The same week Tony Stark lets Ultron loose on the world, Michaela finds herself in a stand-off against what could generously be called Iron Man’s clone.

She’s taken to saying _Knock-Off Iron Man _in her head, and it feels too damn good to have someone else be the butt of that particular joke.

In the lead up to the big event, though, Michaela’s stressing about something other than her mysterious wizard foe for once. School’s winding down again, but that means more finals and projects, and she is woefully underprepared. She’s managed to stay mostly on top of her assignments even with the hero gig eating away at her free time, though she’s insanely lucky that her manager at _Cody’s _rarely drops by to check in with her, because she’s been doing the bulk of her work while she’s on shift, in between checking out customers. But, reminiscent of last semester, everything’s falling apart at crunch time. 

Typical.

She’s spent her entire weekend holed up in her apartment, chipping away at a few projects and sporadically texting Spider-Man in bursts so that she doesn’t completely lose her mind. He’s sympathetic, though he has another month until his own finals (basically confirming he’s still in high school and therefore no older than _maybe _sixteen, because there’s no way she’s committing to him being any older than that), and he’s even stopped sending her conspiracy theory YouTube videos that promise an in-depth exploration of her relationship to Thor. Well. He’s down to one a week, anyway, and Michaela can’t ask for much for self-restraint than that.

She’s in the middle of a break, sitting back in her chair, feet perched on the coffee table in front of her and her laptop placed in the space between, reluctantly watching one of said videos when her (actual) phone lets out a distressing, droning _beep_. She jumps, nearly upends herself from the chair and cracks her skull on the hardwood flooring; she grabs at her phone just before it swan-dives glass-first into the table, breathing a sigh of relief. Then the fucking _beep _again, and she switches her attention to the other phone.

A news alert scrolls across her lock screen, the beeping returning at regular, annoying intervals. She catches something about the Avengers and her chest goes tight, her heart starting to beat out a staccato rhythm against her ribcage. She still looks for them in the news as often as she remembers, but they’ve been largely absent from all forms of social media recently. Except for a report a few days ago that mentioned them taking down a supposed Hydra base in Sokovia, of all places. There hadn’t been anything particularly attention-grabbing in the article, seeing as how the Avengers have been systematically destroying the remains of Hydra for over a year now, all of their efforts public in the aftermath considering the public’s bitter distrust of SHIELD after discovering that Hydra had been thriving inside the organization for decades. 

Admittedly, Michaela hadn’t trusted SHIELD _before _the big reveal on principle. Secretive, shadowy spy organizations that more or less operate outside of the government’s control? She hardly trusts the more regulated agencies like the CIA or the FBI, like hell she was going to play like SHIELD were the good guys. 

Captain America choosing to take on missions with them had fucked with her a little, she remembers, because despite the decades-old propaganda that painted him as little more than a star-spangled puppet of the government, she thought his penchant for rule-breaking would have him either operating exclusively with the Avengers or… dropping the shield altogether. She wouldn’t have blamed him, if he’d given up the Captain America mantle after the Battle of New York; supersoldier or not, he’s human, and humans can only withstand so much stress and hardship before they break. She thought the captain had more than earned his chance at peace, but obviously he hadn’t thought the same. She respected him, still, because she’d seen him in interviews and press conferences and knew he wasn’t going to compromise on his morals just because he was allying himself with SHIELD, and honestly? She’d briefly considered that she gave SHIELD too little credit, because if Captain America saw something worthwhile in working with them, then there had to be _something _good there.

Hydra, though. Can’t say she saw that one coming.

This recent raid looked routine. Nothing to fret over, nothing to get her hackles up over. So she’d dismissed it and went back to studying. 

Michaela wishes that she’d done more digging, now.

She opens a news channel’s website in a new tab and streams the current broadcast. The Avengers have been spotted in Wakanda. Wakanda? She… knows it’s a country in Africa, but not much else — a fact she’d be more ashamed about if it weren’t also true that she can’t name or locate on a map all fifty US states. She’s got the east coast down, and a smattering of western states, and that’s about it. Texas, Florida, California, Idaho because it looks so fucking weird. Those square ones, though? Fuck them

God, focus! Avengers, possibly avenging! This is pertinent information she should actively be absorbing!

Michaela wrinkles her nose and mentally snips all her branching thoughts, narrowing her focus to the laptop screen and the vaguely confused newscaster covering the latest updates on just what the Avengers are doing in Wakanda. They make a passing mention of Vibranium and that — that lights up a corner of Michaela’s flagging brain, flaring with recognition. Captain America’s shield is hewn from Vibranium, yeah? And Wakanda’s… the only place on earth where vibranium can be mined. She doesn’t think the Avengers are there to negotiate getting their hands on more Vibranium weapons for their team, so. Only bad options remain, as far as she can tell.

But, much as she might not want to admit this, she can’t do shit for these guys, especially not all the way over here in Hell’s Kitchen, when the possible dilemma is taking place on a completely different continent. It’s not her problem. She almost _wants _it to be her problem, but it’s not, and she has to accept that.

She is… on the verge of pretending she’s accepted that when her eyes catch on a video in the upper right hand corner that claims it’s covering a _developing story in Hell’s Kitchen_. Michaela spares an apologetic thought to her future self, who is going to get very little sleep and even less sustenance over the next couple days, then clicks the video.

To say it’s not what she’s expecting would imply she had any expectations going into this. And yet somehow this is _not _what she’d been expecting.

Shaky handheld footage (presumably shot on a cell phone camera) pans up from the cracked sidewalk and over to — Michaela thinks that’s the bank about six blocks away from _Cody’s_, the one with the Greek-style columns that one hundred percent does not belong in her neighborhood. So, there’s the bank, a few parked cars that the person filming skips over neatly, a writhing mass of bodies trying to run in several different directions… and— 

“Fuck the police!” a guy at the epicenter of the mass exodus shouts. “Fuck the government! Fuck the Avengers!”

Oh, good. He’s covering all his bases.

The camera is quaking too much for Michaela to get a good look at the guy, but he’s wearing some sort of mask and riding on what looks like a tricked-out motorcycle, doing fucking _donuts _in front of the bank, heedless of the pedestrians who narrowly avoid getting hit in his erratic drive-by. And there’s… a light about him. Not sunlight glinting off his mask or the chrome finish of his bike, he’s lit up somehow, like his skin is stretched over a bunch of fluorescent bulbs. Or it’s the clothes, Michaela can’t be sure without seeing him in person.

Which she’s going to have to do. Fuck her life.

Snapping her laptop shut, Michaela shoots off a quick text to Spidey and Daredevil (who’s in Harlem today, fucking figures) to let them know what’s the situation is, as best she can, and that she’ll contact them if it escalates. Then she grabs the bag she stores her costume in and makes quick work of getting changed; she’s been getting better at the quick-change, she thinks, though she’s still no Superman. In any case, it’s only a few minutes from the time she closes her laptop to when she’s racing out her door and pounding down the street.

It’s a twenty minute walk to the bank from her apartment, so ten if she’s running, which. Not ideal. She doesn’t know what this guy’s deal is or what havoc he plans to cause, but she knows a person can do a lot of damage in ten minutes, especially if they’re enhanced like she is.

Michaela is going to regret this, but what else is new? 

She pivots sharply on her heel and jumps out into the street, sliding between two parked cars and waving to hail down a cabbie. Because the universe hates her, two drive right past her without slowing down, a third almost smushes her flat on the pavement, and she has to practically run out in front of the fourth to get him to stop for her. He’s deeply unimpressed with her antics, and she gets that, she does. Gal dressed like a blue-accented version of the Winter Soldier, sans metal arm — she’s not inviting much sympathy from anyone who doesn’t recognize her as a local vigilante. But she has literally no time to explain her get-up, so she just throws herself into the back of the cab and says, “Keller’s Bank, please, and I would be really, really appreciative of you not calling the cops on me.”

From the rearview mirror, the cabbie — salt-and-pepper beard, deep-set gray eyes, the kind of mouth that looks like it perpetually has fish hooks attached to the corners dragging it down — levels her with an expectant stare, then flicks his gaze meaningfully to the meter at the top of the dashboard.

Michaela fumbles in her pockets, curses for about fifteen seconds, then flails out her hand, fisted around a few crumpled twenties that she stashed in there for emergencies like… like this, she guesses, though god knows she would have preferred a half dozen other scenarios to her having to _take a fucking cab _to a fight. But needs must, and all that. Plus she’s pretty sure these are the blood-splattered twenties she took off an arms dealer three weeks ago, so she doesn’t feel too bad about using them to pay for the cab. She’d feel a lot less ethical about using them in, say, the grocery store. People would have _so many _questions about that. Yikes, no thank you.

The cabbie grunts and starts driving. Mission accomplished.

The traffic gods have apparently seen fit to bless this venture of hers, because four and a half minutes later Michaela chucks the money into the passenger seat of the cab, mutters a harried _thanks _to the indifferent cabbie, and slams the door shut behind her, not bothering to see where the cab drives off to now that she’s here.

It’s a lot like the video, which must have been close to real-time, though there are fewer civilians out in the open now, giving Michaela a much clearer view of the asshole who dragged her out here in the first place.

She called it with the mask, though now that she’s seeing it in person she realizes why it looked weirdly familiar in the video. It’s bulky, probably doubling the size of the guy’s head, and haphazardly spray-painted mostly dark blue and silver over the face plate. Michaela claps a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, because that is _definitely _a cobbled-together Iron Man helmet, not nearly as sleek as the original and barely serviceable from the looks of it. The eye-holes are big enough that, as Michaela slips closer, she can tell the guy’s brown-eyed and also in dire need of an eyebrow trim. He’s not wearing any other form of armor, though, just a matching navy leather jacket, a button-up shirt, and jeans, along with heavy-duty motorcycle boots that… might be brand-new. 

This guy is a total drama queen, she’s calling it right now.

He’s still atop the motorcycle, though he’s sitting side-saddle, hands nowhere near the handles, and yet the bike’s still cruising alone, making lazy laps of the circle of space he’s carved out for himself by driving everyone else into hiding. Michaela spots a bulge in the pocket of his jacket as he rolls past her, and wishes very, very hard that it’s not a gun. She is not a gun fan, very anti-gun. That arms dealer she brought in with Daredevil? Dealt in exotic weaponry, not guns, which was half the reason she went with Daredevil at all. 

The other half was because Daredevil _asked _and she is a weak romantic bitch, alright? It’s an incurable condition and she is learning to live with it.

All in all, you could make the argument that Michaela hasn’t learned much from that time she first met Daredevil, because she takes about ten seconds to suss out a semi-viable plan, then engulfs her hands in crackling lightning and steps out into the open.

“I didn’t know Iron Man had a brother,” is what she comes up while she’s scraping the bottom of the barrel that is her mind for some quippy remark to start off with.

It gets the guy’s attention, at least, as the motorcycle makes a screeching turn to face her, its rider swinging a leg over so that he’s looking right at her. The engine revs, the loudest fucking purr she’s ever heard, and this is while he’s spreading his hands, that light she noticed in the video flickering through his visible skin and pulsing through the cracks in his clothes. 

“Fuck Iron Man,” is his reply, his voice rumbling and robotic, clearly disguised by some sort of modifier.

Michaela presses her mouth into a thin line. So neither of them are especially creative, that’s fine. That just means they won’t be wasting time with witty repartee and she can finish this that much faster.

“Has the guy personally wronged you?” she asks, curiosity getting the better of her. It also gives her a chance to size the guy up, though, so she’ll run for it as long as possible. “Or are you the kind of fanboy who gets bitter and jealous when your celebrity crush doesn’t give you the time of day? Because buddy, that is not healthy. There’s gotta be an acknowledged disconnect. Say it with me: I don’t actually know Tony Stark.”

Surprisingly, the guy takes the bait. “Stark thinks he’s a genius for creating that armor, that he’s untouchable,” he says, practically spitting the words, which does not go over well with the voice modulator, because it comes out all garbled and gravelly, and Michaela barely gets the gist of what he’s saying. He lifts a hand, clenches it into a fist, and the helmet he’s wearing seems to ripple, the plates lifting, exposing the hardware beneath, until suddenly it’s shifting into a much better copy of Stark’s. Minus the customary red and gold, anyway. 

“He’s vulnerable,” he says, low and dark. “And I can’t wait to show him just how easily I can use his own technology against him.”

It strikes her, then, what he’s really doing here. He’s loud and brash, making a spectacle of himself, all to get Stark’s attention, to lure him out here so the guy can take a metaphorical swing at him. _Yikes_. Michaela’s not sure how he’s doing this shit with the tech, if it’s an ability of his or the result of an invention he’s got on him somewhere, but she’s realizing that he can manipulate technology to a frankly terrifying extent. He might actually be able to do what he’s saying he can, take Iron Man down by way of his own suit of armor. 

Thank fuck the Avengers aren’t even in the country right now.

“You’re gonna have to wait a while if you wanna show Stark your party tricks,” Michaela says conversationally, subtly amping up the voltage of the electricity in her hands. The shriek of it gets a little louder, but not so much that it’s going to draw the guy’s eyes. “The Avengers are kinda preoccupied right now, which you’d know if you watched the news.”

No response, but the bike revs again, so she figures that struck a nerve. Idiot. 

“In the meantime, I’ve got a fucking bone to pick with you.” Michaela starts closing the distance between them, weighing her options as she goes. They’re outside, she doesn’t know the limits of his powers (or whatever this is), so she can’t anticipate what he can throw at her, literally or figuratively. Does he need to be close to whatever he’s manipulating? What can he interact with out here? Phones? The fucking electrical grid? “You picked Hell’s Kitchen for your little showdown and that is not cool, buddy, not cool at all. We’ve got enough problems without you trying to duke it out with an Avenger here!”

“This was just for convenience’s sake,” he says, not very remorseful, which is, again, _typical_. He clenches his hand again, light pulsing under the taut skin of his knuckles, and behind him something _booms_. 

Michaela swerves instinctively, looking for the source. There’s smoke wafting down from the bank’s doors, and she spots what used to be an ATM, now a smoldering wreck that’s spitting out thousands of dollars onto the bank’s steps. Harmless — but it underlines his point.

“Going for a classic, I see. Robbing a bank, terrorizing the civvies. I’m guessing you don’t actually care about the money.” He might not, but there’s plenty of desperate bystanders who are sneaking over to the fluttering piles of cash, and. That’s. Bad. Fuck, was that on purpose? Does he want casualties from this? “Why don’t you just… go home, wait for Iron Man to find you? ‘Cause I bet once he gets wind of this he’ll be real eager to come knocking.”

The eye-holes in his mask suddenly blaze with the same light streaking under his skin. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Michaela hears the engine rev, louder than before, and her gaze drops to the motorcycle, expecting him to come barreling at her. She makes to move, to dodge, all the while mindful of the fucking bystanders who haven’t gotten off the streets yet, but the bike… doesn’t move an inch. Michaela’s brow furrows, panic lancing down her spine and curling up tight in her gut. What is he—

She hears the skid of tires from behind her, and it’s only because of the spikes of electricity she shoots into the muscles of her legs and hips that she moves quick enough, twisting around and throwing herself to the side just as a goddamn _Toyota Camry _crashes through the spot she’s just vacated. Michaela rolls when she hits the ground (a move courtesy of Daredevil, who got tired of her dramatics real fucking quick) and jacknifes back to her feet, breathing hard and fast and _holy fuck he just tried to run her over with a car. _

Her thoughts are firing a hundred miles a second. Fuck, fuck the newer cars are all controlled by electronics, everything from the locking mechanisms in the doors to the engines. He doesn’t need to be touching them, barely needs to _look _at them, and he’s got full control. Can send them careening into her or anyone else, and that needs to be shut down right fucking now. 

“Thought you were a bike guy,” she says, letting the smirk her mouth has curved into translate into her cocky tone. “Can’t say cars are my style, either, though.” 

He lifts both hands and she raises hers in turn, firing off a bolt in his direction, more as a distraction than anything else, and another at the car that’s busy making a hasty u-turn to come at her for a second try. It glances off the headlight in a shower of sparks and she hisses a curse to herself, lighting up her hand to try again. She’s not even sure her electricity is going to make it past the outer shell of the car but she doesn’t really have the time to pop the hood, and it’s heading straight for her again, swerving only slightly while this ass presumably dodges her initial blast. She fires again, twice in quick succession, and she hits the hood this time but the result is the same, and _shit_—

Michaela makes a very rash decision. She blames, and will continue to blame, Daredevil for her momentary lapse in judgement. 

Instead of running _away _from the car, she takes a running start and makes a flying leap at it. The impact of hitting the windshield drives the air from her lungs, but she scrambles to get a hand hold, grasping at the windshield wipers and holding on for dear life. Her plan sort of started and ended at _get closer to the car_, consequences be damned, so she’s floundering, unsure what to do to shut this thing down even while she’s on top of it, and while it’s _still driving_, making razor-sharp turns to throw her off.

It’s by the grace of some non-denominational deity that she catches onto the fact that the driver’s side window is partly rolled down. 

She doesn’t have to get her hand into the car, just has to shimmy herself over to hood enough that she can hover a hand over the window, and then she lets loose more electricity in one go than she has since she blacked out her apartment complex. It leaves her ears ringing and heart pounding and her teeth _aching_, but there’s a resounding _boom _not unlike the sound the ATM made, the hood punches up with a sharp _crack _and the groan of denting metal, Michaela gets thrown from the car and hits the ground with all the grace of. Well. A deer that’s just been hit by a car.

She flails onto her back, overwhelmed for a moment by the agonizing sting of the roadburn on her arms and at least one side of her face, the throbbing of her side and back, the acrid scent of smoke that she’s pretty sure is emanating from her own body. Her vision whited out the second the electricity grounded itself in the car, but it’s clearing up now, and she blinks rapidly, jerks her head to the side, because if she did all of that for _nothing_—

But no, the car’s crawled to a standstill some feet away from her, its front wheels propped up on the sidewalk. The smoke might not all be her, at least, because the car is wreathed in it, the hood bent up and curled around what is horrifyingly identifiable as the shape of her body, the engine black and— on fire. The engine block is on fire. Fuck, she forgot to take the fuel in the engine into account, of fuck—

Well. Actually. That probably explains the explosion that fucked the hood and tossed her off like a ragdoll. It must’ve only been residual fuel, because otherwise Michaela thinks she’d be dead right now. By all rights she should be dead anyway. But she’s not, and she’s not _finished_ with this absolutely dick, so even though her body is currently one giant bruise and her hair is both fried and levitating from the static, she forces herself to her feet.

Knock-Off Iron Man isn’t where she left him. The bike is there, but he’s not straddling it. Michaela is in so much pain that she is probably going to pass out once the adrenaline is flushed out of her system, but she still looks for him, and it only takes a second to find him. He’s a dozen yards away from her, one hand extended towards another car, only it’s — not doing his bidding. Michaela flicks her eyes around the street, flashing between one car and the next, and… they’re all… sort of smoking. Not as badly as the car she took a ride on, but it’s eking out from the closed windows in wisps, from under the hood. More than one of them has flames licking at the shell of the car. 

On a hunch, Michaela shakily reaches for her phone and, fuck, yeah, the thing has completely shorted out. Black screen, really warm to the touch. There goes her plan to call Daredevil and Spidey once she was finished here.

Fuck! All her memes are on this thing, too!

Okay, not her primary concern, but it’s going to take _so long _to build up her stash again. At least Spidey will be more than willing to assist.

“The fuck did you just do?”

Michaela doesn’t whip her head around to stare at Knock-Off Iron Man because she might throw up, but she does swivel, slowly, painfully, to look at him. He’s stalking towards her, waving — yup, that was a gun she spotted earlier. A weird chromatic gun she’s never seen before, though the design sort of reminds her of Stark’s repulsors, and. Oh. That’s _also _bad.

“In my defense,” she breathes, clutching a hand around her possibly-broken ribs, “I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

He’s coming closer and she tries very, very hard to summon a flicker of her lightning, because she’s still on the defensive, and his finger is on the trigger, and oh, fuck, _oh, fuck_—

There’s a chance that Michaela does black out for a second, because he’s right there, the gun is pointed right at her face, she’s going to die, and then — she blinks, and Knock-Off Iron Man is on the ground, the gun skidding across the pavement, and straddling his back and pinning his arms to the ground is a— someone. Someone not exactly slight but slighter than Michaela would expect, considering KOIM is throwing all of his not inconsiderable weight around trying to throw them off and they’re not budging an inch. There’s a hoodie obscuring their face but strands of long red hair spill down from the hood and — are those _claws _at the tips of their fingers?

Yeah, there’s a really good chance Michaela blacked out, and that this is some feverish dream she’s living. What the fuck is her life.

“The gun is dead,” her incredibly timely savior says, her voice rough and growly (which might be because she’s actually growling, but who knows?). “Think whatever you pulled with the cars fried it, ‘cause his helmet’s offline too.”

“That is… great news,” Michaela says faintly, taking a few staggering steps closer to the pair. The girl on his back watches her approach, then digs a foot into one of his arms to keep it laid out flat and uses her free hand to just. Rip the mask off the guy’s head. The sound of claws scraping over metal grates on every one of Michaela’s nerves but she doesn’t give a shit right now, just stares in sort of blank surprise at the man she’s been fighting not two minutes ago.

He’s a little older than her maybe, hispanic, dark curls and darker eyes, and those eyebrows that need some serious manscaping. The light is still moving languidly under his skin, but nothing is responding to it, least of all the gun his fingers keep twitching towards. 

“Thank you for… uh. Not letting me die, or something equally as embarrassing,” Michaela says, blinking down at the girl, who cocks her head, sweeps her eyes over the guy underneath before lifting them to meet Michaela’s. And they’re. Purple. That’s cool, she can deal with that. It’s any more strange than all the other shit she’s had to deal with today.

“Don’t worry about it,” the girl says, her mouth curled into a faint, predatory grin. “I’m not a huge fan of egotistical dicks going after defenseless people.” She pauses. “Not that _you’re _defenseless, clearly, ‘cause that lightning was cool as shit, but you’re, ya know. In need of a break.”

Michaela huffs a laugh and immediately regrets it, her ribs protesting the gesture and her aching teeth getting, well, achier. “I still appreciate the save. I’m… god, you’re gonna think I’m rude, but I’m Blackout. Local vigilante, part-time fuck-up. And whatever you’ve got going on there” — she motions towards the claws and the eyes and the sort of feral vibes she’s getting from this girl — “is also cool as shit.”

The girl’s grin widens. She nudges the helmet aside, stands fluidly in one graceful motion, then whips her foot into the side of the guy’s head, knocking him unconscious. Dusting her hands off, she extends one, claws… retracted? Michaela might be experiencing a concussion so she’s not sure she can trust her eyes here. “Claire,” the girl says when Michaela takes her hand. “And hey, it’s not rude. I’m a stranger, you don’t go giving out your real name to a _stranger, _right?” she asks, smiling a little wickedly.

“I see you like to live dangerously,” Michaela says, mustering a weak grin of own. “You’d get along with… like all my vigilante buddies.”

Claire shrugs, brushing a hand through the hair that’s fallen over part of her face, though she doesn’t tuck it back behind her ears. “I figure that sort of comes with the territory of being a vigilante.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be wrong.” Her grin falters as a shooting pain cracks through her head, but it passes just as quickly, and Michaela waves off the wary look Claire’s wearing. “I’m gonna… fuck, I don’t know. I should take care of this guy, maybe drag him to Avengers Tower.” Which. Maybe not the smartest decision, because that building is practically bursting with the most advanced tech on the planet, not to mention whatever Stark’s got squirreled away in his R&D labs. And the second this guy wakes up he’s going to be a fucking menace. “Or… not do that. I will… probably… not do that.”

She kicks lightly at the guy’s side, dazedly. He doesn’t move. So that’s. That’s good. One thing she doesn’t have to worry about right this second.

“You should get going, though,” Michaeala says, before Claire can open her mouth. “I’m sure the police will be here soon, or some like, delegate from the Avengers. No need for you to get caught up in that.”

“You’re gonna deal with this fuckery… alone?” The skeptical brow raise is unnecessary, given the incredulity of her voice, but Michaela gives her points for effort. 

Michaela shrugs. “Someone’s gotta do it, and I’m the one who signed up to deal with the fuckery, so. Yeah. Me, alone.” She levels a meaningful look at Claire, lingering on the hair covering her face and the bulky hoodie that hides her figure, the nondescript everything she’s wearing. “Something tells me you’d rather not get brought into this, anyway. Not as anything more than a helpful bystander who tackled the crazy guy to the ground.”

Claire visibly considers that, frowning, arms crossed under her chest. Michaela waits her out, taking the moment to catalogue everything that’s wrong with her at the moment. It’s a lot. It’s pretty much everything. Fuck, she’s gonna need a hospital visit after this, her amateur skills with a med kit aren’t going to cut it this time. And she can’t even call Daredevil or Spidey for help because she _fried _her _fucking phone_. 

Michaela’s gotta get a better handle on these powers, she just has to. Things like today can’t keep happening, even if they had _good _unexpected consequences this time around.

“How about this?” Michaela says slowly, the idea coming to her in jagged bits because brain went through the electrical equivalent of a blender and she’s not firing on all cylinders, so to speak. “Give me your number.”

That gets _both _of Claire’s brows to hike up to her hairline, and oh, yeah, that might’ve sounded a lot more forward than Michaela intended.

“Not… like that,” she sighs, scrubbing at the back of her neck. “My vigilante buddies and I, we have burner phones that we use to keep in contact. My phone is about as useful as a paperweight right now so I can’t give you _my _number, but as soon as I get a replacement phone, I’ll shoot you a text, let you know how everything worked out. You’re not, uh, obligated to keep the number after I text you, ‘cause you’re not… Ugh, give me a second.” 

Michaela takes a deep, shuddering breath, wincing at her ribs. Gathers her thoughts from the maelstrom they’ve been turned into. “I’m not asking for any sort of accountability, I’m just offering you… Let’s just say, if you’re in New York, and you ever need someone to have your back, you can call me. I owe you a favor, anyway.”

Claire’s grinning again by the time she’s finished, and she’s already digging out a pen from her pocket (which she has for some reason, Michaela has seen stranger shit emerge from people’s pockets before), grabbing Michaela’s less-roadburned arm and scribbling down the number onto what little unblemished skin there is. 

This is all very high school, honestly, though Michaela doesn’t feel as warm and fluttery as she did the first time she got a girl’s number inked onto her arm. Or when she did the same to a guy. No, now she just feels heavy and exhausted and pained, but she still smiles at Claire, only belatedly realizing that she won’t be able to see much of it with the mask still mostly in place. 

“Thanks again, Claire,” Michaela says, giving her hand another firm shake that probably lasts a second too long. But to be fair Michaela is half out of her mind right now and she’s lucky she’s forming coherent sentences at all. Societal nuances are escaping her and that’s just fucking fine. “Seriously, text or call if you need to. Or you just want to talk. These powers… they’re a real bitch on the best days, huh?”

“Yeah,” Claire laughs, giving Michaela’s hand an extra squeeze before dropping her own back to her side. “Not gonna disagree with you there. And I’ll keep all that in mind. Not sure how much longer I’ll be in New York though.”

“Well,” Michaela says, a tad loftily but it’s clearly an act and she hopes Claire sees through her bullshit, “I do have _Thor’s number_, so. I bet I can send help wherever you need it.”

“Are you milking this ‘daughter of Thor’ thing, or…”

“Oh my— My dad was born in _Ohio_, I am not a fucking alien.”

“Those sparklers of yours kinda paint a different picture, Firecracker,” Claire smirks.

“Firecracker.” Michaela just rolls her eyes, which, incidentally, also fucking hurt. “Yeah, sure, not the worst nickname I’ve been given since I started this hero thing. I’ll take it.”

“Good, because my nicknames usually stick. Fair warning.”

“Uh-huh, sure. You gonna get going any time soon, Purple Eyes?”

“That is lame and you can do so much better than that, but yeah, I’ll get going, leave you to your hero shenanigans.” Claire squints at her and Michaela tries vaguely not to look as much like she’s death warmed over. “Am I gonna hear about you dying on the news?”

“Not any time soon,” Michaela says, which in retrospect is not a reassuring response but it’s the best she’s got at the moment. “Seriously. Go. You’ve done way more than your civic duty or whatever. I’ll take the heat for this, and you can… go back to whatever you were doing before you got mixed up in all this. Yeah?”

After a moment, Claire says, “Yeah, yeah, I can take a hint.” Then she flashes another wolfish smile and slips away, back into the now-growing crowd. Michaela doesn’t watch her go, just shifts her attention to the unconscious man at her feet. Claire was a nice distraction, but she still has no goddamn clue what she’s going to do with him. Avengers Tower is out. The police station probably couldn’t hold him, or a jail for that matter. Too many things are automated these days — he’d find some way to be tech-savvy and escape, and then probably go do his dick-measuring contest with Tony Stark. That’s not good for anyone, so it’s probably best that Michaela sorts out his new place of residence as quickly as she can.

God, where _are _the cops, though? You’d think they’d be here by now. Ugh, she doesn’t agree with literally anything this guy said, but _fuck the cops _struck a chord. At least Hell’s Kitchen’s cops. 

Michaela’s dropped down next to KOIM (she’ll call him Kim for short), fighting against the tidal wave of unconsciousness that’s rolling over her mind, when a shadow falls over her. She doesn’t have it in her to jump upright, doesn’t feel the usual tingling energy zipping through her, so she just rolls her head back and squints up at the newcomer.

He’s a bland kinda guy, balding, expressionless. Nice suit but not _too _nice. As she watches, he pulls out a strange little smile, friendly but… she can’t read much from it.

“Can I help you?” she asks tiredly. “Because unfortunately for you, I’m all outta helpful qualities at the moment.”

“I think it’s more that I can help you,” he says, crouching to her level when it’s clear she won’t be standing any time soon. She appreciates that, even if she doesn’t necessarily want to. “We’ve known about you for quite a while, Blackout. You’ve done some good work here, it’s why you haven’t met us before now.”

“I’m gonna need to know who this _we _is before you say anything else that’s vaguely threatening.”

The man chuckles. Chuckles. Of course, not even a full fucking laugh from this guy. “That would be polite, wouldn’t it?” He lifts a badge from the inside of his suit pocket and holds it out to her. _Strategic Homeland I_— 

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait, the fuck? SHIElD doesn’t exist anymore, Captain America shut that shit down,” she insists, glaring at the badge and then back at the man in front of her, who seems completely unfazed by her reaction. 

“SHIELD needed… a reboot,” he says, tilting his head. “It couldn’t keep existing in its current form, thanks to Hydra, but that doesn’t mean we’re not still out here trying to make a difference where other agencies can’t or won’t. I thought you might appreciate that, seeing you don’t exactly work within the parameters of the law, either.”

Michaela swallows, hard. “Okay. Okay, sure, SHIELD is still a thing, I’m sure Captain America is real ecstatic about that” — the guy flinches, she knows it, it’s fractional and minute but he fucking flinches, god — “but what does this have to do with me? You planning on _taking care of me_?”

He smiles again. “Of course not, Blackout, you’ve done Hell’s Kitchen a world of good since you started down this path. We just want to help.” He holds out his hands. “Phil Coulson, acting Director of SHIELD.”

Michaela reluctantly shakes hands, and finds his are rougher than she’s assumed. Calloused, like he handles firearms and other weapons fairly frequently. That’s… interesting. 

“Right now, we just want to talk,” Coulson says, and then flicks his hand slightly to indicate Kim. “About both of you. You’re not going to be forced into coming with me, Blackout, but I think it’s in your best interest. We really do want to help.”

“This is how like fifty-percent of movie kidnappings start, but what the hell.” She lets Coulson help her to her feet, sways a little until she finds her balance. “We meeting in an office, or something?”

“Or something,” Coulson says, still smiling. “You’ll see soon enough.”

_Alright_, Michaela thinks, _alright, fine, this is fine. Definitely not about to get dissected by some possibly-Nazi scientists. On the bright side, at least Claire isn’t here for this_.

Michaela also doesn’t want to be here for this, but. Ugh. She told Claire she’d take care of it, anyway, she might as well keep her promise, tenuous as it is.


	10. chapter eight | shield isn't dead and michaela isn't quite human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaela learns some fun new information about herself and also still does not trust government agencies, even ones resurrected from the dead.

When Michaela abruptly jolts awake, she realizes, in a haze of panic, that she’s not at home. This is not her bed. And that woman who spooks at her sudden reanimation is not someone she recognizes. 

“You’re awake!” she squeaks, unnecessarily.

Michaela ignores her for a second, scoping out the room she’s in. Everything’s high tech, monitors everywhere, medical equipment arranged neatly on tables. The harsh tang of chemicals, though, is strangely absent. Not a hospital, then, which is probably for the best. Michaela still doesn’t have health insurance, which, as a superhero, is something of a fatal problem for her. At least she’s beginning to understand that, not least because right now she certainly feels like she’s on the verge of death.

That’s when it comes back to her — the fight, Kim, _Coulson and SHIELD_—

“You’re… SHIELD?” Michaela rasps, and the woman, decked out in a spiffy lab coat, crosses the relatively small room to stand at her bedside. She reaches out to the wall beside her and taps at a screen, bringing up what look to be medical records. Michaela’s? Most likely.

“I’m an agent of SHIELD, yes,” the woman confirms, frowning at the screen before smoothing out her expression into a kindly smile that she turns on Michaela. She’s British, though that hardly registers for Michaela when weighed against literally every other thing that’s going on. “Jemma Simmons, at your service.”

Michaela subtly stretches herself out atop the bed, testing her range of movement. Ribs are more bruised than broken, she thinks; the roadburn on her arms has been bandaged and numbed with something; she’s aching everything but not as intensely as she’d figured she would be. Heavy-duty painkillers, or… it could be something else, probably, who the fuck knows what SHIELD gets up to while not actually existing in any like, legal way. Unfortunately, while she isn’t in nearly as much pain as she was bracing for, she’s woozy as hell, and that typically doesn’t lend itself to making a grand escape from one’s possible captors. 

Stifling a groan, Michaela shuffles back until she’s propped up enough against the pillows that she’s not flat on her back, which is when she (belatedly) realizes something else.

Her mask and goggles are gone, along with the rest of her costume.

“What the _fuck_,” she hisses, her eyes darting to Simmons’, who blinks, face blanking in confusion. “Does the concept of a secret identity mean _nothing _to you?”

Simmons blinks again, then laughs, which does not endear her to Michaela in the slightest. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to… I’m not laughing _at you_,” she says, gentling her voice and subsequently pissing Michaela off even more, “it’s just that… Well, you’ve been on SHIELD’s radar ever since the attempted robbery at that store… _Cody’s_, was it? It wasn’t a difficult leap to connect you to the hero who saved the day.”

“Right,” Michaela says, dry as bone. It’s a concern she’d had back then, that people would recognize something about her, or someone would have seen her sneaking into the alley, or that Emmett might’ve remembered a detail about that nailed her identity. But nothing like that had happened. Or, she’d thought it hadn’t. “That guy. Coulson? He said you guys weren’t Hydra. S’that why you’re violating my privacy?”

“Oh, we’re not—” Simmons falters, paling slightly at the mention of Hydra. Michaela raises a brow in response, unsympathetic. She’d agreed to meet with Coulson’s team but she didn’t agree to being stripped of her cover, and someone’s going to answer for that, even if they apparently already knew. “I’m sorry, I am, it’s a hazard of the work we do. Information is such a valuable commodity, and in the beginning we didn’t know if you were a threat or not. You’re in our systems but your information doesn’t go beyond our database, I assure you.”

“That is the least reassuring thing I’ve ever heard, but okay. Where’s Coulson? I said I’d speak to him.” The _and only him _goes unsaid, but Michaela’s sure her expression conveys the sentiment well enough. 

“Yes, right, I’ll just…” Simmons nods and steps away, moving towards the door.

Michaela, who is still a weak bitch even when under duress, heaves a sigh and says, “Thank you, though. For the… I’m assuming you’re the one who patched me up, so. Thanks.”

Just before she’s out the door, Simmons pauses, looking back at her. She lights up with a smile. “It was nothing! You’re hardly the worst patient I’ve had to treat! I’ll be right back with Coulson, alright?” And then she’s gone, the door sliding shut behind her.

That’s not ominous or anything.

Michaela lays back against the pillows, groaning aloud now that she’s alone. Mostly alone. She doesn’t doubt there’s surveillance in here somewhere, though she doesn’t bother trying to spot it. No point, and anyway she’s exhausted, mind and body. There could be a camera right in front of her face and she would have a twenty-percent chance of picking up on it. Okay, fifteen, because one of her eyes is swollen and she’s only just noticing that now. Fuck, when did that even happen? Well. Probably when she fell from the car, that’s when all the other bad shit went down. 

She’s not going to be able to chide Daredevil about his reckless behavior anymore, is she? 

“Ms. King, I’m glad to see you’ve woken up so soon.”

Michaela squints open her good eye, a little unnerved that she can’t recall closing it, to see Director Coulson standing at the foot of her bed. With another woman beside him. Ugh, why so many new people? Michaela is not in the mood for company of any kind, let alone multiple strangers who might have sinister intention towards her. The woman’s a little shorter than Coulson, brunet, smiling sort of impishly; hands tucked behind her back, dressed in a leather jacket that Michaela is hilariously jealous of (which she blames mostly on the drugs).

“Hey, you’re—”

“Hold on a sec,” Michaela mumbles, cutting the woman off. She blinks, then lifts both brows as Michaela lifts a hand (as much as she can, at least) and points an accusatory finger at Coulson. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“Ms. King, I know you’re under a lot of stress right now, and you’re recovering from several serious injuries. If you don’t remember our conversation—”

“Nuh-uh, don’t pull that shit with me, Coulson. I am on drugs and I passed the fuck out, but I know what I agreed to with you. To talk, nothing more, nothing less. I did not agree for you to _unmask me_ without my consent.”

Coulson’s bland smile doesn’t waver, though the woman shoots him a look like this isn’t the first time Coulson’s done something like this, and it’s not the first time he’s been called out for it. Or maybe Michaela’s reading too much into the expression. She’s on the good drugs, she can tell now; it reminds her of when she broke her leg when she was eleven and ended up telling her best friend at the time that he had bunny teeth. It was not taken as the compliment she’d intended it to be.

“And I know my _secret identity _is a joke to you all, but what the fuck? I’m not Jessica Jones, I keep the mask on for a reason.”

“You’re safe here, Ms. King,” Coulson says, like that makes anything better. “Your identity won’t be leaked to the public in any way.”

“You’re missing the point, and I can’t tell if you’re doing it on purpose or not.”

“With Coulson there’s a good chance of it being either,” the woman says, gently hip-checking Coulson so that he moves back and she can take his spot directly in front of her. “And I will personally apologize for all the bullshit you’ve been put through in the short amount of time you’ve been with SHIELD. But what Coulson told you before is true — we want to help, Blackout.”

The use of her hero name has Michaela sinking a little further into her pillows, hitched shoulders loosening, her scowl not quite as prominent. The woman grins at her, crossing her arms under her chest and plopping right down at the foot of the bed, bringing a knee up onto the mattress.

“I’m Skye,” she says, “and you have no idea how much we have in common.”

That gets Michaela’s attention, though she fights not to make that so obvious. If the mildly amused look Coulson is sporting is any indicator she’s not doing a bang-up job of it, but oh well. It’s a low-level priority. “Were you kidnapped by SHIELD too?”

“Nah, I walked in willingly. Although I’m surprised they didn’t take me in sooner, since I’d been hacking the hell out of them for a while before Coulson made me an offer.”

Hacking? She’d hacked _SHIELD_? There’s a biting comment sitting on the tip of Michaela’s tongue, about how if she could get into their systems how didn’t she notice Hydra’s tentacles everywhere, but she presses it to the roof of her mouth and lets it sit there. It’s snippy and rude and, frankly, an oversimplification of an insanely complicated situation. Insulting this woman also isn’t going to get her anywhere she wants to be, so she just nods, tries to be polite as she motions for Skye to get on with it.

Alright, her _polite _isn’t of the usual variety, but she blames it on the drugs and the pain and her own general stupidity.

“We’re similar in another way,” Skye says, stretching from her spot on the bed to pluck a tablet from a set of drawers beside the bed, and she types something into it while she keeps talking. “So about seven months ago you were admitted to the hospital, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Michaela agrees warily, flicking a glance at Coulson. He’s not looking at either of them at the moment, seemingly reading from his phone, though Michaela doesn’t doubt that he’s still highly attuned to what she’s doing. Fucking creepy, is what it is.

“You stayed for a couple of days, doctors ran some tests on you because you’d been exposed to an unknown airborne substance and they didn’t know what the side effects were going to be. All you got was a pretty high fever and some achy muscles, which they attributed to the trauma of the ongoing Avengers thing at the time.”

“This isn’t new information,” Michaela mumbles, “I _was _there. I remember all this. You got a point to go with it?”

Skye grins again, this time a little wider. “Sassy, nice. We need more of that around here. Anyway, yeah, I’ve got a point. That unknown airborne substance? It’s not _really _unknown. They call it Terrigen Mist.”

That makes it unknown to her, still, which she comments to Skye, who shrugs and makes a face like, _Sorry, I’ve got a script I’ve gotta get through_. Which. It would be hilarious if Skye were actually speaking from a script, like the tablet she’s holding was acting as a teleprompter. It would also result in Michaela’s blood pressure skyrocketing, so it’s probably for the best that she’s more or less speaking off the cuff.

“I’m not gonna get into everything with you right now because there is a shit-ton of info you’d need to be briefed on, and I bet that’s not appealing to you. So we’ll get to the good stuff. This Mist, it’s used to bring out the Inhuman genetics in people.”

“...and this is where you explain what an Inhuman is, right?”

“Right.” Skye flashes her teeth in another infectious smile. “Inhumans are… they’re alien experiments that made it to Earth. That Mist is what gave them powers in the first place. And they formed their own society away from humans, developed and evolved separately. They stayed separate for a long, long time. But shit happened and then humans and Inhumans were mixing together, and since they’re pretty identical to humans in terms of appearance, things got _heated_ eventually. You know?”

“Yes, I think I understand human mating rituals enough to grasp what happened there.”

“Just checking. It’s been a few generations now, so there are humans with some Inhuman ancestry nowadays. And that Mist that gave them their powers originally? It can do the same thing for their descendants.”

“...you’re shitting me.”

“‘Fraid not,” Skye says, sounding genuinely sympathetic as she turns the tablet towards Michaela. On it is a diagram of a DNA strand, though it looks… off in a way Michaela can’t pinpoint. Underneath it is her name, _King, Michaela F. _Her DNA. Her weird-looking DNA. Cool. That’s… cool. “Dunno how far back it’s from, but you have an Inhuman in your family history somewhere, so when you were exposed to the Terrigen Mist…”

“It awakened powers in you,” Coulson finishes, evidently done playing with his phone. “You, and a handful of other individuals residing in New York. One who technically lives in Nevada but came here for a chance at the _big city life_. Like I mentioned before, we’ve been monitoring these individuals because they’re potential threats, and because Skye here is interested in training them.”

“Because I’m Inhuman, too,” Skye adds, seeing the poleaxed look on Michaela’s face. “And I know how terrifying it is to suddenly have these powers and have no idea what to do with them. You’re rockin’ them well, though, much better than some of the others. You took it better than me, anyway.”

Should she say thank you? 

Michaela’s head is spinning. She’s not entirely human. That’s… not that hard to believe. She’d had no idea where the fuck these powers came from, had thought that maybe that toxin or whatever had mutated her, or irradiated her, or _something_. Because obviously she doesn’t subscribe to the batshit insane theory that Thor is her _dad_, so logically, that day, caught in the fallout of an Avengers’ battle, that’s the likeliest catalyst for change in her life. Unless it had been something she ate, which. Unlikely. 

Can’t say she’d considered alien ancestry to actually be a viable possibility. Not Asgardian genes, but Inhuman, a race of people who previously didn’t exist in her worldview. Michaela carefully slots that information away so she can freak out in private later. Preferably with as much cheap alcohol as she can get her hands on. Daredevil’s gonna have to handle another night or two on his own.

“Okay,” Michaela says slowly, scrubbing a hand over her face, just for something to do that isn’t staring mindlessly at Skye and Coulson. “Okay, so. That’s what the electricity is about. Good to know. And… that guy? Knock-Off Iron Man? He’s Inhuman too?”

“That’s right,” Coulson says. “Julius Rodriguez. He’s a technopath, according to FitzSimmons.”

Michaela raises a brow, and Skye says, “You met Simmons. Fitz is like her other half. They’re the nerd duo on this team. They’re a package deal so everyone just calls them FitzSimmons.”

“What are you going to do with him? Rodriguez.”

Skye and Coulson share a glance, communicating solely with their eyebrows. Michaela would be annoyed at how they’re cutting her out of the conversation, except she’s still processing everything that came before this, and her brain does not have room for excess words right now. She almost appreciates the brief few moments of silence.

“We’re hoping to rehabilitate him,” Skye says eventually, careful, in a way she hasn’t been up until now. Michaela’s gotten the sense that she’s been fairly open and honest with her from the beginning, but this must be a touchy subject. “But for now, we have a place for him to go, so that he’s not throwing the gauntlet down at Tony Stark’s feet any time soon.”

As much as it makes her skin crawl to think of Rodriguez locked up in some supermax prison, his powers dampened and probably drugged (she’s drawing on a lot of sci-fi movies, don’t judge her), she’s relieved, in a way. That guy almost had her today, and she really does _not _want to know what damage he could actually do to Stark. She’s sure the other Avengers could handle him, easy (especially Cap and the Hulk, given how little they rely on any sort of technology to fight), but Stark’s a wild card at times, and for the love of Christ, the man gave out his home address to a terrorist a few years ago, he’s clearly not above trying to settle disputes personally, without backup. Who’s to say he and this technopath wouldn’t get a good bit of alone time before anyone cottoned on to Stark’s reckless plan?

No, unfortunately, it’s a good idea that Rodriguez isn’t roaming the streets. And it does take care of the problem she’d been contemplating before, of what exactly she was going to do with him. This takes his fate out of her hands.

She’s only slightly bitter about it.

“You said you wanted to help,” Michaela says, directing it at Coulson, narrowing her eyes at him. He just nods, unperturbed. Michaela grits her teeth, then forcibly relaxes her jaw. “What would that entail, exactly?”

“Training,” Skye answers. “It’s how I got my powers under control, and how I want to help all the newly-minted Inhumans running around out here.” She pauses, fiddling with something on her tablet, then looks up at Michaela from under her bangs. “Your powers, they’re… a lot like someone else’s I know. Based on your genetics, there’s a chance you might be distantly related.”

Oh, good. Relatives. Michaela loves meeting new relatives. Like Aunt Renee, who alternated between demanding why Michaela didn’t have a boyfriend (she emphasized _husband _but Michaela drowned that part of it out) and _what _the hell did she think she was doing, going into _graphic design_? (Which she’d spit across the table like it was a curse specifically designed to insult her mother). Ignoring the fact that Michaela is openly bisexual to her family and therefore not restricted to the heteronormative trope of settling down with a nice guy and cooking all his fucking meals, she got into graphic design because she likes it. It had been a bright spot in her otherwise cookie-cutter curriculum. So having that brought up in a manner that said her chosen degree and subsequent profession wasn’t a _real job_, that— that made something dark and writhing burn low in her gut.

Michaela doesn’t start fights. She doesn’t want to, most of the time. She’s not a fan of conflict, especially with friends. But she’s clawed her way back to some degree of self-confidence after drowning in her teens, and having that made out to be _nothing_, of no interest? 

Michaela wishes now, absently, only paying the thought a smidge of attention, that she’d had powers for when Aunt Renee came into her life.

Realizing she’s gotten off track in her head, she smooths away whatever expression got Skye and Coulson to look at her with twin looks of concern and nods to herself. “You think this guy would be willing to work with me?”

Skye considers that, tapping away still. Michaela wonders if she’s multitasking or buying herself time. She doesn’t fault her for either, really; Michaela may be mixed up in this clusterfuck of a mess, but she’s not exactly entitled to all these government (pseudo-government?) secrets. When Skye meets her gaze again, though, something seems to have settled within her.

“I think I could persuade him to pay you a visit,” she says, smirking.

Michaela frowns, checking another unsightly groan. “Make it a supervised visit. Either you come along or I don’t even wanna meet the guy.”

“‘Long as Coulson doesn’t need me, that should work out fine. I’ll get in contact with Lincoln and let you know, ‘kay?”

Assuming Lincoln is this guy she might share heritage with, sure, that’s great. Michaela nods and Skye, pleased, tucks the tablet under her arm and stands. She shares another quick eyebrow-convo with Coulson, then says, “We fixed your phone, by the way. Or, Fitz fixed it. He’ll want you to know it was him.” She rolls her eyes, clearly fond this Fitz guy. “Plus I convinced Coulson and May to let me add in that number you had inked on your arm—”

Startled, Michaela glances down, searching for that sliver of skin that hadn’t been scraped raw by the asphalt, seven numbers written down out of trust and a sense of comradery— and all she finds it clean, ink-free skin, bracketed by bandages. Fuck, she didn’t even notice it was missing.

“—without them putting a tracer on it,” Skye says, and Michaela can see that she’s smug about it. She winks at Michaela. Michaela blinks. Then blinks again.

Ah. Skye thinks Claire’s number is for a _date_. Well, Michaela isn’t going to correct her, seeing as that means she doesn’t have to explain that Claire has some very interesting abilities of her own that SHIELD would surely take an interest in. Claire probably isn’t Inhuman, anyway; she didn’t sound like she was from New York, and she didn’t seem like she’d been in the city long. If she isn’t Inhuman, SHIELD doesn’t need to know. It’ll be nice to have a friend – or at least an ally – out there that is most likely flying under SHIELD’s radar, because Michaela isn’t for a second going to believe that they don’t keep tabs on Daredevil, Spidey and the others.

“Thanks, Skye,” she says, a genuine smile pulling at her mouth, which is a first for her time held in SHIELD captivity. Ugh, okay, captivity is too harsh a word, but Michaela would very much like to get back to her life now that she’s had the whole Inhuman thing explained to her. In fact… “Now that we’ve got all this settled, when can I leave?”

“You really should stay for medical—”

“We’ll get you out of here, ASAP,” Skye says, cutting Coulson off. He narrows his eyes at her briefly, but then he just shrugs and nods his assent. Michaela is a little bit in awe of Skye’s powers, and she doesn’t even know what kind crazy shit she can do from a superhero standpoint. “The only problem is, a lot of what you were wearing didn’t really make it out of the fight, except for like, the goggles. So we’ll get you replacements for everything and drop ‘em off to you soon.”

“That’s…” _Not necessary_, is what she goes to say, but that’s a generous offer and she can’t really turn it down. Doesn’t _want _to turn it down, if she’s being honest. She’s too tired to think about redoing her costume by herself, and she’s too grateful about the phone (she can call Daredevil and Spidey now!) to start an argument just for the sake of it. “That’s great,” is what she settles on after a moment.

“Cool,” Skye grins. She comes around and loops an arm under Michaela’s shoulder, gently urging her to her feet. Michaela sways slightly but plants her feet, lets the moment of dizziness pass, and grins back at Skye. “You can keep the sweats you’re in, by the way. In case you were wondering. But anyway, let’s get you home.” She slips a hand into her pocket and comes back with Michaela’s phone, which she promptly tucks into Michaela’s own sweatpants pocket, because Michaela is definitely not coordinated enough for that right now. “I’ll be in touch, alright?”

“Sounds good,” Michaela says.

Coulson lets them go without a word, just smiles pleasantly at Michaela as they pass, which Michaela finds more disturbing than anything else he’s done thus far. She deliberately doesn’t look at him as Skye leads her out of the medical suite, vaguely hoping they don’t run into anyone else. Michaela can barely handle playing nice with Skye right now, and that doesn’t take much effort. She just wants to get home and sleep for ten years.

Oh, fuck, what is she going to do about _work_? Or her finals?

Michaela decides abruptly that this is going to be a future Michaela problem and silently shunts that off to a far-off corner of her mind, where it will eventually be discovered with all the fervor and anxiety of the unearthing of an ancient Egyptian tomb. Is she going to be cursed? Probably. Again, though, that’s for later.

“How are you getting me home, anyway?” Michaela asks, barely paying attention to the base/facility/whatever SHIELD runs out of these days as they move through it, clinging to Skye with a desperate sort of intensity. She doesn’t seem to mind, at any rate, so Michaela’s guilt stays relatively level throughout their excursion. “I don’t… really remember how I even got here.”

“Oh, no worries, we’ve got a car.”

Later, Michaela will wonder at the nonchalance with which Skye said that, the absolute lack of any indication that she meant anything other than _a car_. She will be baffled and a little sick to her stomach, though not because of some great betrayal. For now, though, she just nods, because what else is she going to say?

A car. Sure, how _else _did she think they were going to transport her somewhere? Via teleportation device? Ha.


	11. chapter nine | not-so-secret identities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the fuck did Daredevil come from?

_ A fucking flying car. Named Lola. What the ever-loving  _ fuck.

  
Michaela slumps back against her door, grateful to feel its solid (if creaky) presence at her back. She nearly sinks to her knees, but this is not where she wants to collapse into a pile of bruises and almost-broken bones. No, that honor goes to her bed, and its evil fucking mattress with the sentient springs that poke and prod at her on a nightly basis. She needs a new… everything, there’s really nothing in her apartment that isn’t secondhand (or third, or fourth, or fifth…), but the mattress needs to go ASAP. It’s bad enough she’s been trying to nurse her hero-ing wounds by herself, that mattress is undoing all her hard work every night.

  
With a sigh, Michaela pushes away from the door and drags her feet as she stumbles through her shithole apartment, dodging around the pile of shoes and the baseball bat she keeps by the entryway on memory alone. She doesn’t bother turning on the lights; there’s no point in it when she could map this place out blindfolded. She spares half a thought to unplugging her laptop from where it sits on the coffee table, then devotes the entirety of her attention to walking the mostly straight line from her armchair to her bed, where she splays out face-down, groaning into her bedsheets as her muscles protests even the temptation of relief.

  
A flying car. She turns her face against the bed, smooshing her cheek into the blanket and taking the pressure off her swollen eye. They really have a flying car at SHIELD. It seems so – redundant. She was literally on a big ass, super high-tech plan that doubles as that SHIELD team’s base of operations, and they just – have this collector’s car outfitted with like, jet engines or something. They have _quinjets_, and yet someone (Coulson, apparently, since he popped up out of nowhere to remind Skye that he’s the only one allowed to drive _Lola_) decided that this was a necessary expense on SHIELD’s part.  
She wonders idly if Tony Stark knows it exists, and if he does, if he’s jealous of it. The guy has a robot suit and an AI butler, but does he have a flying car? _Nope_. Seems like something he would’ve built in his spare them and then, like, crashed into a cliff. So maybe Stark did, at some point, have a flying car. Hadn’t his dad tried to make one back in the forties, or something? That sounds familiar. Michaela’s going with that until she’s proven wrong.

God, she’s almost glad this medication Simmons gave her is finally wearing off. The fucking tangents she’s following in her brain, when they are, none of them, the crux of her concerns. Ugh. The problem is, once the meds are flushed out of her system, she is going to be  _ in agony _ . Simmons stopped her on her way out with a baggie full of prescription medication she can take to take the edge off her pain, but she’s probably going to mainline Advil or Tylenol or whatever because addiction scares the hell out of her, more than death, honestly.

That reminds her – she’d wanted to get blackout drunk when she got in. Well, seeing as she can’t even fathom moving a single limb from its current position, that plan has effectively been tossed out the window. She’ll drown her sorrows tomorrow, after she’s come up with some excuse as to why she can’t come into work.  
…she’ll work on the alcohol thing, she swears. Just – not tomorrow.

Michaela closes her eyes, tucking her arms in close to her chest, rocking a little until she’s mostly on her side but still partially on her stomach, knees drawn up slightly. She wishes she had the energy to pull a blanket over her because she hates sleeping without one, even in the summer, but it’s not in the cards for tonight. Annoying, but tolerable.  
  
She’s on her way to falling asleep when a sound from across the room jolts her back to wakefulness.  
  
She’s bolting upright despite the various aches and pains that are making themselves furiously known to her, her hands crackling with intermittent bursts of electricity, and for a moment she curses the fact that that one blast earlier used up so much of her energy. But she doesn’t have the time to dwell on it, because that’s her _window _sliding open, and someone ducking inside, what the fuck, didn’t she lock that?  
Before she can lunge for the intruder, so fucking done with today and not even remotely above zapping their ass back out the window, she hears someone call her name. Her actual, legal name. And that’s a voice she’d recognize anywhere.  
  
“Daredevil?” she whispers, her electricity fizzling out in the wake of her confusion. She squints, trying to make out his figure in the ambient lighting streaming in through her window (she also needs those blackout curtains, fuck), and – yeah, that’s him alright, complete with eye-catching red suit and devil-horned mask.  
  
“Michaela,” he says, a thread of tension in his words that she doesn’t immediately understand. And. Oh, wait, did he just—  
  
He starts towards her bed after sliding the window closed behind him, but she. She blinks rapidly for a moment, trying to make sense of this. Daredevil knows her _name_?  
  
“Stop,” she breathes, her voice suddenly about ten times as hoarse as it had been earlier at SHIELD. He falters, but does as she asks, and she just looks at him, watching him watch her. The tension in his voice is evident in the rest of his body, tight across his shoulders and straining his hands, clenched into fists. He’s upset, okay, and – and she can guess why, now, the synapses are firing a little quicker in her brain. She didn’t call after all, after everything, and the news must have been a shit show, especially because she and Rodriguez up and disappeared right at the end there.  
  
But none of that explains why he _knows her name_.  
  
“The fuck,” she says, the anger rising bright and hot in her chest, filling up the aching spaces between her ribs with a fire she so very rarely experiences. “What the _fuck_, man? How do you know who I am?”  
  
“Oh,” he says. Just _oh_, like he hadn’t realized what he said. Like the reminder she’s giving him is an unwelcome one. Well, fuck that, she wants _answers_, and she’s sure as hell going to get them from him, ninja-skills or not.  
  
“Daredevil. What the _fuck_. How long have you known? Be honest with me, you fucker, because if not I’m going to- to—” She doesn’t even know, what threat can she possibly give that would be remotely convincing? She could never hurt him, she…  
  
“Michaela,” he says, and she flinches, which he must be able to see because he lifts his hands in a placating gesture, shaking his head slowly. “Michaela, I swear, you’re not in any danger.”  
And that’s so reminiscent of the shit Coulson was trying to sell her that the anger in her chest blossoms into an inferno in about point two seconds.  
  
She’s on her feet before she realizes she even wants to move, her pain forgotten for the moment, so overwhelmed by the visceral feeling of betrayal that it all becomes secondary. He doesn’t move even as she closes the distance between them, as she gets a hand hooked into the neck of his suit and drags him down so that they’re eye-to-eye.  
  
“Give me an explanation _right now_,” she says through gritted teeth, “preferably one that doesn’t make me want to murder you in my own damn home.”  
  
He still doesn’t move. He breathes quietly, utterly still in her hold, and god, she wants to be able to see his eyes, wants his mask off, but she’s not going to do that to him even though turnabout is fair fucking play.  
  
“I’ve known since the first time I met you,” he says, quiet, soft, his voice barely more than a low hum in her ears. “The first time I met you as Daredevil, at least.”  
  
Her brow furrows. “What does that mean? Do we know each other?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, we do. Here, I’ll—” and he takes off the mask.  
  
Michaela can’t breathe. The anger’s gone as quickly as it came, and she can’t breathe with the loss, her hands dropping from his suit and clutching at her own throat as she tries to take a step back and just—the world feels like it drops out from under her, her head is spinning, thoughts whited out into static, every inhale short and broken and the air trapped in her throat and—  
  
Matt Murdock catches her, arms gentle around her, guiding her to the floor without letting her go for a second. She’s aware, faintly, of him talking, the words indistinct and meaningless, but low and soothing just the same. She feels a pulse, much steadier than her own, under her fingers and wonders when he pressed them to the side of his neck.  
  
Times slides away from her. It could be seconds or minutes, hours or days before she draws in the first proper breath, sharp and cutting, the ache in her chest expanding for a moment before it dwindles again. She becomes aware of things slowly, incrementally; the heartbeat thudding rhythmically beneath her fingertips first, the hand at her back pressing down in smooth, warm circles second, the voice in her ear, careful and precise and so, so soft last.  
  
“You’re alright, you’re okay, Michaela. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before now, but you’re alright, I promise. You’re safe. I’ve got you, you’re not alone, just breathe, that’s it, you’re doing great, Michaela, just—”  
  
_Fuck_, she thinks, the second her thoughts aren’t beating uselessly at the shores of her overworked, underpaid mind. _Fuck, he’s Matt. Matt is really Daredevil. How did I never notice? He doesn’t change his voice, he—god, he’s _blind_, the fuck, how does he even—  
__  
_ “You’re blind,” she says, sounding like she’s been gargling some horrid mix of rocks and sandpaper. It’s insensitive and she knows that, on some level right now, but it’s the only coherent thought in her head that she can vocalize.  
  
He goes quiet mid-sentence, though his hand on her back doesn’t slow or stop. “I am,” he says. “That wasn’t a lie. Isn’t a lie.” He pauses, and she feels his breath against her ear, the side of her neck, ruffling her flyaway hairs. “Most people don’t—they don’t make the connection,” he says. “Karen, she… I saved her once, as Daredevil, and she’s known Matt Murdock for months, but she just doesn’t see it. Or hear it, maybe. The same voice, the same mannerisms. It’s a leap that people don’t see any point in making, they—they can’t reconcile blind, passive Matt Murdock with Daredevil.”  
  
“The… connection,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment as she eases herself back from his chest, which she’s been lying against for god knows how long. He lets her go, but keep a cautious grip on her sides. She opens her eyes, looks right at him, and she’s… she’s never seen him without the glasses, or the mask, and his eyes are so big and brown and they’re looking right back at her. Not over her shoulder, or off to the side. “You made it pretty easily with me.”  
  
He smiles wryly, his eyes bright with an apology she’s already heard him make. “I… I don’t know if you’ve figured it out yet, from our outings together. I’m blind, but my hearing is ridiculously good. It’s how I can fight as well as I do, I can track people’s movements by the sounds they make, or the absence of sound where I know I should hear something. And I can hear heartbeats, breathing patterns, the faint differences between voices. I can recognize who I’m talking to without having to see them, physically.” She feels a squeeze at her sides and can’t bear to be upset about it, not with him _looking _at her like this. “I realized your voice was the same as when I went into _Cody’s_. Your laugh is pretty distinct, too.”  
  
“You’ve known this _entire _time and didn’t… didn’t think it was something I should know too?”  
  
He couldn’t look more Catholic right now if he had a rosary around his neck, guilt a well-worn mask that slips over his features, darkens his eyes and brings a faint flush to his skin that she barely sees in the dark. Matt doesn’t say anything for a moment as he nudges her back slightly, urging her to lean against the bed frame. She does, putting a scant few inches of space between them, and Matt respects that, sitting back on his heels, hands loose between his knees. He breathes in, holds it for a heartbeat.  
  
“I should have told you,” he says. “I should have, I know that, and I’ve known that for months. But at the time, I was worried that telling you I knew Michaela was Blackout meant you’d figure out that Matt Murdock was Daredevil.” His mouth quirks into a small, humorless smile. He looks older than he ever has, as either Matt or Daredevil, and despite everything her heart goes out to him. “It was… stupid. Stupid and naïve of me. I didn’t want anyone to really know this side of me. I wanted Daredevil to be a completely separate entity, a costume I put on and take off at will. But you know Daredevil better than you know Matt Murdock.”  
  
That’s true, though she’s never had cause to think of it that way before. Matt Murdock is the cute, charming lawyer who sometimes comes into _Cody’s _and regales her with tales of office life, what dumb argument Karen and Foggy got into that morning, what snacks Foggy is craving this week. Daredevil, though, he’s a partner, someone she trusts with her life, someone she trusts with the lives of others. Matt is a stranger, one that she enjoys the company of, but a stranger nonetheless. Daredevil… she doesn’t quite know what to call Daredevil right now, but he’s… important. And more than just because he’s pulled her ass out of the fire more times than Michaela can count.  
  
“Daredevil’s your dark side, huh?” she asks, and that humorless smile widens a fraction.  
  
“I’m not a very forgiving Catholic, as you may have noticed.”  
  
And oh _boy_, has she noticed.  
  
Even before Michaela hit the genetic lottery and became her own personal phone charger, she read the reports on Daredevil. He saved lives, yeah, but he left bodies behind everywhere he went. He didn’t go as far as to _kill _anyone, but the people he went after, they wound up in the hospital beaten to within an inch of their lives. They weren’t – aren’t – good people, not by any definition of the word. Rapists, murderers, child traffickers. As far as she’s aware, Daredevil has never set his (metaphorical) sights on anyone who hasn’t proven themselves to be the scum of the earth. But the police don’t like him, don’t like his methods or his style, and they never have, not since the beginning.  
  
Daredevil hasn’t changed, either.  
  
That night they met, he did more damage than necessary to those gang members, but he prioritized helping her out of the fucking mess she’d made for herself. And they’ve gone out together on patrol, and she’s followed Daredevil into fight after fight, letting him take the lead, because he has more experience, because he has the skills to _end _fights, not just start them. And it’s not like Michaela was _ignoring it_, she saw him – the violence, the rage. The doubt, that what he was doing was right, that he wasn’t making a mistake.  
  
She isn’t sure what it says about her that _she’s_ never thought he was making a mistake. Not even after seeing his methods up close and personal. Daredevil gets the job done where Michaela sometimes can’t, because she prefers to subdue someone rather than outright out-fight them.  
  
Michaela’s also seen the way he shrugs off her praise, the way he smiles at her corny jokes, the support he offers her unconditionally, even when she unintentionally casts herself as the damsel in distress. She knows – knows deep down in her core – that what Daredevil does for Hell’s Kitchen comes from a place of genuine kindness, a desire to help those who can’t help themselves. She thinks, though, that sometimes the signals get crossed, and maybe he _likes _the thrill of fighting for his life. Maybe he takes on anything and everything that threatens Hell’s Kitchen because it gives him a purpose he can’t find anywhere else. And maybe that isn’t healthy, but.  
  
Michaela would be the biggest fucking hypocrite if she called him out on it.  
  
“You can be both, you know,” she says, after a long while of the two of them sitting in silence, regarding each other. On the floor of her apartment, with an open window and a hell of a secret separating them.  
“Both?” He cocks his head, and god, that’s familiar. That’s Matt and that’s Daredevil, and it’s _him_, all of it is him, this guy she’s half crazy about.  
  
“Matt Murdock, attorney at law, and Daredevil, Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. They’re both… you, Matt. I…” She trails off, biting at her lip. She lets her head thunk back against the bed frame. “When I started this, I promised myself that Blackout would be my complete opposite. And in some ways I’ve stayed true to that. But I’ve also learned that… that I’m not just _pretending _the entire time I’m wearing the costume, ya know? Blackout isn’t another person, it’s me.”  
  
She carefully lets her leg stretch out until the tip of her sneaker is lightly jabbing at Matt’s foot. He doesn’t startle, through his sightless gaze drops down to where they’re touching, frowning. She smiles, even knowing he can’t see it.  
  
“What I’m trying to say is… yeah. I know Daredevil pretty well by now. But I think I’ve also learned a thing or two about Matt Murdock along the way. So you’re wrong, sort of.” His frown deepens and she lets out a huff of a laugh, stifling it into her shoulder, because she is the _queen _of inappropriate reactions. “I am kind of an idiot for not putting two and two together and seeing who you are under the mask. Sure, I never would have thought Matt Murdock could kick the shit out of four grown men with only minor casualties on his part, but Matt Murdock laughs at me and my idiocy just like Daredevil does.”  
  
“I’m still mad at you,” she says before he gets any funny idea about being off the hook, though from the look of fond exasperation he gives her, she figures that was understood implicitly from the get-go. Aw, look at them, knowing each other and shit. “You should have told me. You __also shouldn’t have broken into my apartment.”  
  
“Technically,” he says, and Michaela’s chest already feels less tight, because she knows that tone, she knows him, even if it’s a surprise to both of them, “I didn’t break in. Breaking in would imply the window was locked, which it wasn’t.”  
  
“Don’t go into lawyer-mode right now on me, Matt, I swear to god…”

  
He smiles, ducking his head. “Can’t really turn it off, honestly. Arguing has always been my forte.”  
  
A retort sits ready on her tongue, but she pauses, considering that. It’s true, obviously; she’s had him talk circles around her while they’re out on patrol together, even over the most trivial of subjects. But he didn’t do that here, tonight. He barely made a case for himself. Just gave her the information she wanted and the briefest of explanations as to why he did what he did and let her decide whether or not that was enough. Matt’s persuasive; he’s won every “debate” they’ve ever had. But he wasn’t aiming to win anything against her tonight.  
  
Swallowing, Michaela tucks that information away, and instead says, “What the hell do you mean, the window wasn’t locked?”  
  
“It wasn’t,” he insists, looking up at her through his lashes, and how the _fuck _does he do that? Look so fucking doe-eyed that she just wants to hug him and damn the consequences, when he can’t even _see her_. “I’m not even sure that lock works. It felt rusted to me.”  
  
“It _felt _rusted, okay, sure. Did it also _feel _like it’s about fifty years old?”  
  
“All I’m saying is you might want to look into getting a new lock…”  
  
“I bet your apartment is just the pinnacle of safety, is that it?”  
  
_There’s _that Daredevil smirk she’s come to loathe and adore in equal measure. “The locks work, if that’s what you’re asking.”  
  
“Fuck off, Murdock,” she says, sans heat. She kicks her foot at him again. “We got really off-track, huh? What are you doing here this late?”  
  
He slow-blinks, darting his eyes away before they settle on her again. Then he reaches into a hidden pocket of his suit and pulls out his phone. “I’m spoiled,” he says, wry. “I’m used to you actually checking in after you say you’re going to check in. When you didn’t, and no one else had heard from you…” He shrugs. “I wasn’t sure how thing had gone, in the end. The bar I met Luke outside of had the news on, and I heard that no one could find you or that guy when the fighting was done. Luke claims I overreacted, and would also probably claim that I’m overreacting right now.”  
  
“Aw,” Michaela says teasingly, even as her heart makes a decent attempt to trip out of her chest, “you were worried about me.”  
  
Matt raises a brow. “Does that surprise you?”  
  
“Uh… no, no it does not. It’s just nice to hear you say it.”  
  
“Yes, I was worried about you.” Just then, Matt’s phone rings (and Michaela is going to be kicking herself for_ever_, because why else would Daredevil insist on phone calls over texting?), and he frowns down at the screen. A robotic voice says, “Spider-Man is calling,” and he rolls his eyes. “That was the other problem I’ve been fielding all day. Spidey came very, very close to swinging his way down to Hell’s Kitchen before I told him I’d find out what happened. I’m guessing he wants me to report in.”  
  
“Here, let me see that,” and Michaela grabs the phone from Matt’s unresisting fingers. She answers the call and puts it on speaker phone. “Hey, Spidey. You miss me?”  
  
“_BLACKOUT YOU’RE ALIVE_,” Spidey practically screeches from the other end of the line. Matt visibly winces at the volume, leaning back from the phone. Michaela make’s a sympathetic noise and lowers the volume of the call. “_Where have you _been _all day? I called Daredevil and he said he hadn’t seen you in a few days but he got the same text I did earlier, and then I called Ms. Jones even though she is _terrifying_, but she told me I’d have to pay her if I wanted her to investigate and _then _she said she doesn’t extort money from children and hung up on me! Hey, what happened with that Iron Man guy? You kind of like exploded with electricity at one point and all the news coverage cut off. Did you fry everyone’s phones? Oh my god you totally fried everyone’s phones. Were you trying to do that, like, because you didn’t want what you were about to do on the news? I was freaking out when you jumped on that car, I thought it _hit you_, oh my god_—”   
  
“Dear god, Spider-Child, _breathe_,” Michaela laughs, though she stops soon enough, what with the throbbing of her ribs and her, well, everything else. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Matt (damn super hearing), but he only reaches out to lay a hand atop hers, squeezing gently. She smiles down at the phone. “I’m… not fine, exactly. I’m pretty banged up, honestly, but I’m alive, and Daredevil’s here right now, so you don’t have to worry, okay?”  
  
“_People always say that, _you don’t have to worry_, but I’m always gonna worry anyway! I thought you _died_, Blackout! That’s gonna make me worry!_”   
  
He has a fair point, Michaela concedes. “You’re right, shit, if it were you, I’d be out of my mind with worry, kid. But I promise, I’m as alright as I can be right now. I’ll give you all the details the next time we meet up, okay?”  
  
Silence, aside from a bit of static on the line, which might just be Spidey moving around. It’s late; is he at home? That seems so strange to her, the idea of Spider-Man, a literal teenage, maybe puttering around his room, talking to her and Matt about all this superhero shit that none of them should probably be involved in. Spidey’s a kid, for Christ’s sake. This is all so surreal, she can barely wrap her head around it sometimes.   
  
“_Yeah, I can be alright with that. But we gotta meet up soon! Er, once you’re feeling better. You can come to Queens! Or I can—_”  
  
“I’ll come to Queens,” Michaela says instantly. Hell’s Kitchen would eat this boy alive if he stayed for more than a few minutes to drop Michaela off. “Give me a couple weeks and I’ll take the subway over, and you can see for yourself that I’m okay. Besides, I have one hell of a story to tell you, Spidey, you’re not gonna believe it.”  
  
“_Aw, I have to wait _weeks _to see you again?_” Dismayed as he sounds, he barrels right along before she can even try to console him. “_We can get churros! I know this really great street cart, the guy who runs it is _hilarious_, you’re gonna love him, Blackout._” In the background there’s the muffled sound of someone else’s voice, though Michaela makes out something along the lines of _who are you talking to? _She grins. Parents, probably. “_Oh, sh—shoot! Gotta go, Blackout, feel better soon! No, no, no don’t come in, I’m, uh, naked, I’m—_”  
  
The line goes dead.  
  
Michaela snorts, dropping her face into her waiting hand. This kid. He’s going to have her going gray by thirty, but she’s also _intensely _glad she met him. He’s really good at restoring her faith in humanity, which has been in short supply these last few weeks.  
  
Handing the phone back to Daredevil (and marveling only a little that he anticipates he movements with ease), she resettles herself against the bed, trying to get as comfortable as possible when it sort of feels like she had the Hulk smash her into the ground _on top of _Thor hitting her with a blast from his hammer. She’s going to be feeling this for _weeks_, just like she told Spidey. But she is alive – that has to count for something, even if that _something _is eluding her at the moment.  
  
“That’s one problem solved,” she says, and Matt laughs, nodding.  
  
“You handle him much better than I do.”  
  
“I’m not actually any good with kids, but he’s… we get along well. S’nice to know someone out-geeks me. He honestly puts high school me to shame.”  
  
“He keeps trying to get me to watch Star Wars, which for obvious reasons is ironic and somewhat funny, but it’s like he thinks he’s discovered this hidden gem of the seventies that no one has ever heard of before.” Matt wrinkles his nose and god it’s _cute_, ugh. “Talking to him feels like it ages me about twenty years.”  
  
“You and me both, buddy. Oh! The phone thing, that reminds me,” she mumbles, twisting cautiously to pull her not-so-broken phone from her pocket, then twisting back like she’s presenting it to him. “So. Long story short? SHIELD’s still kicking.”  
  
Matt blinks, leaning forward as if he’s afraid he hasn’t heard her correctly. “SHIELD? As in the government organization that Captain America systematically dismantled because it was plagued by Hydra?”  
  
Michaela taps her nose. “That’s the one.”  
  
“Do I even want to know how they’re still around?”  
  
“I don’t even know everything, honestly, just that they’re semi-active on the enhanced individuals scene. They picked me and the Iron Man guy up after the fight, patched me up, promised the guy would be going to a secure facility and that they’d try to rehabilitate him, whatever that means, and…” Well, if she wants honesty from Matt she’s gotta put her money where her mouth is. “One other thing. Turns out I’m not as, uh, human as I thought I was?”  
  
His brows draw together in a sharp _v_, mouth twisting in confusion. He doesn’t respond, clearly a little thrown by the abrupt subject change, so, heart climbing into her throat, Michaela rushes to fill the silence: “It’s, uh… another case of me not knowing everything. There’s a woman at SHIELD, like me, she’s an Inhuman, which – unoriginal name but not all that important. They’re _like _humans, for the most part, except they’re technically descendants of an alien race’s experiments, and… well. It’s why I have my powers. I’m not like, a hundred percent Inhuman, it’s just that someone somewhere in my ancestry was one, so I carry the genes…”  
  
“Michaela,” he says gently, gripping the hand she hadn’t realized he’s still holding a little tighter, “please don’t work yourself into another panic attack.” He winces. “Your heart rate gets so high I keep worrying you’re going to pass out.”  
  
“I’m not—” Except she definitely is, her breathing already shallow and her heart, previously in her throat, now dropped down to the bottom of her stomach. But she swallows and flips her hand around to grip his back, letting the touch ground her in the moment. One panic attack is more than enough for this shitshow of a night. “Okay, okay, I’m… I just. You’re not… freaked out?”  
  
“It’s not like it changes anything,” he says. “And it’s not like you’re the only hero with an interesting backstory. Thor is a literal alien, remember? People like him just fine.”  
  
“Right, you’re totally right, I…”  
  
“Just breathe, Michaela. I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”  
  
She gives a sharp shake of her head at that, because the last thing she wants is to be alone right now. She knows he means it more in the sense that he’s not going to suddenly start ghosting her, he’s not going to refuse to patrol with her, but she takes comfort in the warmth of his hand, even through the glove, and she doesn’t want to give that up just yet.  
  
“Okay,” she whispers, which gets her another reassuring squeeze. Neither of them lets go. “You got any exciting news to share? Make us equal?”  
  
“It’s not really the same but… I mentioned before that I did get to have a chat with Luke Cage today.”  
  
Michaela perks right up at that. “Oh, shit, I forgot you were in Harlem.” It’s why she didn’t have him as backup today for Rodriguez, which should mean that fact is seared into her brain, but alas, that’s not how her brain works, apparently. “What did he say?”  
  
Matt grins. “He likes the idea. But he said Harlem is a priority for him, so we can’t always expect him to answer the call.”  
  
“Holy shit.” Michaela feels lighter, the stress of the day and the bitter residue of the night sliding off her as she breaks into the biggest smile she can muster. “Holy _shit_, that’s everyone. We got everyone. That’s—” She laughs, she can’t help it. This stupid little idea she had has actually become something. She wants to cry a little; it’s probably a holdover from the drugs. “Thank you, for going along with this. For… all of it, really.”  
  
“What are vigilante buddies for, if not following through on potentially disastrous ideas?”  
  
She just shakes her head and smiles, at him but mostly to herself. He’s a dumbass; he should have told her months ago that her secret identity wasn’t all that secret with him around, and she’s mad about that, don’t get her wrong. But she doesn’t _want _to be mad at him, and from her experience that means it’s not going to last longer than a week or two. He’s a dumbass, but she… she really likes him. Believes in him, even, which is not a feeling she’s familiar with when it comes to people she’s been romantically interested in. He’s a good guy – he’s made mistakes, but he’s still _good_, she knows that without a doubt. She also knows how lucky she is that he stepped in that night, that he’s stayed with her this long. Things could have gone a lot differently with her superhero career without Daredevil. Without Matt Murdock.  
  
“Can you…” She feels like she’s thirteen again, shoring up the courage to hold her crush’s hand for the first time. Except she’s nearly twenty-five and they’re already holding hands, and this isn’t even about anything romantic. She just wants to not be alone tonight. “Would you mind staying here, tonight? If you don’t have to get back to your apartment right away, at least. Or. I don’t know. You said it yourself, right? Security here sucks. And I’m not exactly in peak physical condition right now, so. Uh.”  
  
She’s a little worried she’s overstepped when he doesn’t say anything, just looks at her, head cocked to the side, a curious expression on his face. And she’s two seconds from reeling everything back in and laughing it off as a side-effect of the many, many things that have gone wrong today, but then he’s helping her to her feet and pushing her a little until she’s seated on the bed. He nudges her shoes and says, “You get these off and I’ll start on taking the suit off. It’s going to be a couple minutes, fair warning.”  
  
He disappears into her bathroom (somehow unerringly finding it, without tripping over any of her miscellaneous shit on the ground) and she stares blankly at the closed door for about ten seconds before the subtle sounds of clothing hitting the ground shakes her out of her thoughts. Michaela toes at the heel of one sneaker, kicking it off into the shadows under her desk that’s adjacent to the bed, then does the same with the other. Then she shuffles back until she’s laying down on her side, wrapped up in her blanket cocoon. Waiting, and driving herself mad with it.  
  
But of course she doesn’t get to dwell on her plethora of insecurities for long, because Matt comes out of the bathroom minus the suit, in a long-sleeved black athletic shirt and matching pants. She can just make out the outline of his crumpled suit on the floor of her bathroom before he closes the door quietly behind him and turns to her, quirking a brow. She flushes, just a little, because this is a weird fucking situation and she doesn’t know the protocol for any of it. She’s not exactly setting out to be the world’s greatest host here.  
  
“Couch,” he says, when her wide-eyed staring has culminated in not saying a single word to him for at least thirty solid seconds. She wants to protest, but he waves a hand, saying, “It’s fine, I swear. Closer to the door this way, anyway.” And he grins like it’s a joke but she knows it’s not; he doesn’t consider her helpless, he’s said as much before, but you don’t have to believe that about someone to want to protect them.  
She should know – she feels the same way about him.  
  
So she says _okay _and watches as he picks his way effortlessly through her apartment, snagging the blanket she keeps tossed over the armchair and curling up on the couch with it. It’s never quiet here in the city; there’s always the sounds of traffic filtering in through even the closed windows, people stumbling home drunk and shouting. The occasional gunshot. Tonight, though, beyond the faint _whoosh _of cars outside, she doesn’t hear anything but her own breathing and the _tick-tick-tick _of her janky ceiling fan.  
  
Matt, though. Matt can hear so much more than that.  
  
“Matt,” she whispers, unsurprised when he lifts his head. God, just how _good _is his hearing? “I just realized something. I’m gonna have to tell work I got into an accident or something. Fuck, they’re gonna fire me.”  
  
“They aren’t going to fire you.”  
  
“You don’t __know that.”  
  
“No, I don’t. But if they try, I can recommend a great lawyer to plead your case.”  
  
Michaela mock gasps, bunching up her blankets. “You’ll get Foggy to help me out?”  
  
Matt just laughs lightly. “Sure, he’ll love it. Karen, too. You’ll be in their very capable hands.”  
  
“…was that a serious offer?”  
  
“Yes, Michaela, I’m serious. Now go to sleep, you’ll heal faster.”  
  
“Aye, aye, Captain.”  
  
The last thing she hears before she drifts off is Matt chuckling, and she admits, just to herself, that it’s something she’d like to hear a lot more of. 


	12. chapter ten | the avengers fucked up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Age of Ultron was happening in the background, right?

**chapter ten | the avengers fucked up **

True to her word, as soon as Michaela feels physically up to it, she contacts Spidey and lets him know she’s on her way to Queens, to which he responds with a nearly incoherent block of emojis and a single line telling her where to meet him. She smiled when she saw it, because she’s starting to get really damn attached to this kid, and it’s frankly a little ridiculous that he’s this stupidly endearing.

The meet-up spot is a rooftop, surprising absolutely no one, though Michaela realizes quickly it’s less for the ease of access and more for what’s across the street. As she settles at the edge of the roof, letting her legs dangle off the side, she squints down at the electronics store, where a wall of TVs occupy the front window. They’re all tuned into the news, and they’re all running a story about the Avengers and the recent carnage they brought to Sokovia. Hundreds of people died when the city fell, even with the Avengers (and SHIELD, apparently, so Michaela guesses that means they’re done operating out of the shadows for now) clearing the city itself. And the threat that started it all – Ultron, the fucking sentient robot – came straight out of Stark’s personal labs.

Michaela is… trying not to give them too much shit for it. At least, not all of the Avengers. Stark’s genius is legendary, and his propensity for AI technology well-known, but this was a step too far in a direction he shouldn’t have followed in the first place. Or. What the hell, Michaela doesn’t know shit about the tech he was messing around with, but she knows now that Ultron orchestrated the stealing of the Vibranium from the Wakandan mine, that Ultron lifted Sokovia right out of the ground and into the sky, and that it was Ultron’s plan to ultimately wipe out the entirety of the human race by dropping the city like a meteor onto the earth. Stark designed Ultron, gave it the tools and the skills to evolve the way it did, and, well. As far as Michaela can tell, he’s not getting much actual backlash for it.

He’s apologized publicly several times, in different press conferences and in an interview for TIME, but he keeps reiterating that Ultron was meant to protect the world, that that’s what the world _needs_. The phrase he used was a suit of armor around the earth, or something similar to that, and while Michaela sees the need for beefed up protection from extraterrestrial threats, she’s more inclined to try living, breathing _people _over an AI system or a fleet of robots. For all Iron Man’s technological prowess, he’s a man underneath the suit, and Michaela respects that. She trusts the _Avengers_ to do their jobs when the time comes, but apparently Stark doesn’t have faith in his own people.

Again, she’s trying not to judge him too harshly. He had good intentions, and he’s funding a relief program for the people displaced by the city being a smoldering wreck in Europe. She just wishes he’d own up to the fact that Ultron was on him, not the Avengers as a whole.

She’s a little lost in thought, jumping from one track to the next as her anxiety starts tangling everything together, when she hears “_Blackout! Incoming!_” from the left, and she instinctively scoots to the side, giving Spider-Man a clear landing spot as he hops down from the adjacent building. He’s silent as ever when his feet hit the roof, distributing his weight evenly, arms spread slightly to keep his balance. He lowers himself into a crouch beside her, and before she can greet him he’s lunging at her and crushing her in an enthusiastic hug.

“You’re alive!” he cheers, while she gasps at the strength in his relatively tiny frame, too shocked to hug back properly. Also, _ouch_, tender ribs over here. She manages to communicate that, vaguely, and he releases her instantly, scratching the back of his head as he rocks back on his heels. “Sorry, sorry, I just… It’s really good to see you in one piece, Blackout.”

“Believe me, I know the feeling,” she says wryly, bringing him back into a hug that’s less on the crushing side. Letting go, she says, “I am sorry for scaring you. When I shorted out everyone else’s phone I did the same to mine. Hitting that car didn’t help things either. I would’ve called you otherwise, I swear.”

“I know! You wouldn’t leave me hanging unless you had no choice.”

The trust this kid has in her… well, it’s humbling, and it certainly makes her want to live up to his expectations of her. Patting his shoulder, she swivels around and presses the soles of her feet together so that they’re face-to-face. “Before I get into my ultra-fun experience, what’ve you been up to since I last saw you?”

She can’t see his face, obviously, but he definitely lights up at the question, diving straight into Spider-Man’s Greatest Hits from the last three weeks or so, from actually rescuing a kitten from a tree (precious) to webbing a shoplifter to a hot dog cart (hilarious). He’s a physical talker, which is interesting and mildly dangerous, as at one point he hits the switch for his web-shooter accidentally and nearly webs her in the face while he’s gesturing wildly to imitate the behavior of a drunk wannabe nudist that he stopped before things escalated too far. He’s had an eventful few weeks, it seems, and she can’t help the smile as she listens to him.

When he’s finished with as much as he can remember off the top of his head, she says, “Good god, kid, you’ve been busy. And all I’ve been doing in the meantime is groaning into my bedsheets and bothering Daredevil while he’s out working. FYI, if you happen to leave him a voicemail while he’s beating up some baddies, the response you get is—” She cuts herself off because what she was _about _to say is not appropriate for a high schooler. Or, it could be, depending on the high schooler, but Michaela’s mostly joking with it anyway and she doesn’t want to be a bad influence on the kid.

Ha. That’s a losing battle if she’s ever seen one.

“Aw, Blackout, you were recovering,” Spidey says consolingly, which is unnecessary but appreciated nonetheless. “That Iron Man guy you went against… he was _insane_, I’ve never seen powers like his before. Or were they powers? The footage wasn’t the best so I couldn’t tell if he had something on him, a remote switch for the cars and the bike maybe, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense that he was enhanced somehow—”

“Yup, got it in one, Spidey,” Michaela laughs, amazed at how perceptive he is. “He’s a technopath.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of those! He can control technology just by thinking about it? Or, like, making a mental connection with the tech?”

“Something like that, I don’t really understand the… I guess the science behind it? How his brain processes all that. But then again, it’s not like I understand the science behind my own powers, so.”

“Okay, so technopath in an Iron Man Halloween costume, that’s one thing explained.”

“You’ve got a list?”

“…a mental one, yeah.”

Michaela snorts. “Ask away, Spidey, that’s why I came out here, remember?”

He takes that as the permission it clearly is and _goes for it_. Michaela can’t answer all of his questions, either because she doesn’t know how or because he’s asking about something she hasn’t thought about herself, but they eventually circle around to where she disappeared to after the fight. In the wake of Ultron, hearing that SHIELD is alive and kicking isn’t the bombshell she thought it was going to be, and Spidey’s more interested in her status as an Inhuman than anything else, which she can’t really blame him for. Again, she understands almost nothing about what it means for her, either in terms of her biology or her powers, but he’s fascinated all the same.

It’s the polar opposite of her conversation with Matt, because Matt didn’t question most of what she told him, just accepted it and accepted _her_; god it makes her want to cry just thinking about it. Though Spidey isn’t malicious about anything (_obviously_), his brain just runs about a hundred miles an hour faster than Michaela’s and sees things from a vastly different perspective. She appreciate it, weirdly enough; it makes her consider what she’s gone through, what she’s going through, from a new angle.

Spidey could probably go for another hour, minimum, but Michaela gets distracted by the news coverage on the TVs across the street. They’re flipping through footage of Sokovia in the aftermath, survivors speaking intermittently about their experiences, some of them teary-eyed and grateful that the Avengers intervened, others… less so.

Her brow knits together as she watches the newscaster move on to talking about the Avengers compound that’s upstate, where most of the team has apparently relocated following Sokovia. The Avengers haven’t been incredibly forthcoming about the newest additions to their team and the media is ravenous for glimpses of them. A few photos have leaked online, and Sam Wilson, former para-rescue, has already been outed as a friend of Captain America, and the same hero from the fall of the Triskelion last year. They’ve been seen out and about in New York and D.C. together, mostly on runs, so there’s a lot _speculation _about their relationship. Michaela doesn’t give a shit if they’re fucking or not, she’s more concerned with how Wilson handles himself as the Falcon, and from what she’s seen over while she was on mandated bedrest, she’s not disappointed so far.

There’s three other new Avengers, though none of their names or abilities have made headlines recently. The secrecy is curious, but again, Michaela just wants to know that they’re able to do their duties.

“The Falcon is _so cool_,” Spidey says, snapping her out of her thoughts. Instead of being upset about her basically ignoring him for the last… however many minutes she’s spent glued to the news, he’s just as invested in it. When Michaela gives him a _look _(as much as she can while masked, at least), he shrugs, unrepentant. “I _know_ there’s more important things going on with the Avengers, but c’mon, Blackout, admit it! He’s cool! He can fly, and he’s such a badass—I mean, he’s really good in a fight?” Michaela rolls her eyes, unbeknownst to him, though he seems to sense she’s let him off the hook because he goes on to add, “He and Captain America work so well together, it’s weird to think they’ve only known each other for like, a year.”

“I’ll give you that,” she says, humming a little to herself. Their coordination in a fight is impressive, and Spidey’s right—it comes off like they’ve known each other a lot longer. Though she supposes going through a traumatic, high-stakes fight will do that for a partnership. “How’s your worship of Tony Stark going? Strong as ever?”

Spidey balks, sputtering, “I’m not—I don’t _worship _Mr. Stark, I just… _Blackout_,” he trails off with a whine very befitting of his age, and she breaks and laughs, flapping a hand to say it’s fine, she’s done teasing him. “I know…” He audibly swallows, and she sobers quickly, straightening and resting a hand on his shoulder, a silent show of support. He ducks his head. “Ultron was a mess, and Mr. Stark… I know he wanted Ultron to be a force for good, and I _know _he never meant for any of this to happen… I don’t know,” he says, and there’s such dejection in his voice that Michaela’s (admittedly rusty) instinct to comfort kicks in abruptly.

“Spidey, everyone’s got faults. You’ve seen many, many of mine, yeah? Give him a chance to make up for this before you go and toss your crush on him onto the burn pile.”

Flustered as he clearly is by the ‘crush’ comment, Spider-Man does seem to give what she’s saying some serious thought. Sticking up for Tony Stark is not how she wants to spend her afternoon, though (and god knows the man doesn’t need a random vigilante from Hell’s Kitchen to guard his reputation) so she changes subjects, latching onto the other thing she’s been worried about since the news about Ultron broke. She’s talked it over with Matt half a dozen times by now, but he’s as uncertain as she is.

The Avengers just made a very public mistake. Law enforcement already doesn’t appreciate the efforts of vigilantes. This seems like the perfect opportunity to crack down on heroes who aren’t technically sanctioned by the government.

She says as much to Spidey, who tells her he’s been thinking about it as well, though he personally hasn’t had to deal much with police interfering with his do-gooding. She and Matt haven’t been nearly as lucky, and it feels like every other night they have to cut their patrols short just to avoid making a scene with the local cops, all of whom apparently want to personally see Daredevil behind bars. She’s less a thorn in their sides compared to him, though she fails to understand _why_ when she’s the one with flashy powers, but, well, she’s also not complaining too loudly about it.

Matt has noticed, but has again been showing his gentlemanly colors, because he hasn’t brought it up to her. Not yet, at least.

Things naturally wind down from there, though, the conversation gradually tapering off.

Has she had to deal with that Punisher dude in her neighborhood? Nope, Matt’s had that one covered for a while now, which he finally told her about a week ago. She was… not pleased, but also in no place to judge, given the wizard situation.

Oh, yeah, what about the wizard situation? …Michaela would prefer not to discuss her failures, thank you for understanding.

Her and Daredevil…? Michaela would also not like to discuss her nonexistent love life with a minor. That’s a low she is not prepared to embrace, especially when she’s recently had the epiphany that Matt can one hundred percent discern when her heart beat picks up around him, probably when she’s flushed from something he says or does, and also probably when she’s even _thinking _about him. Just. Ugh. Despite Michaela having been fairly proficient in French in high school, she’s not exactly fluent in romance.

The sun’s disappeared behind the skyscrapers when they eventually part ways, Spider-Man assured of her continued survival and relative health, Michaela just happy that she’s checked off one of her boxes on the ever-growing list of things she needs to accomplish. Not that visiting Spidey is a chore, but she’s been _busy_.

(Her finals, by the way? Better than expected, though Matt had to drop by one night when she was one Photoshop glitch away from jumping off the fire escape. Turns out his presence is soothing in all types of situations, devil suit not required)

Michaela, spirits buoyed and now informed of where she can get the _best _milkshake in all of New York, is on the subway home when her phone beeps with an incoming text. She almost reaches for her regular phone before registering the unique tone of said beep and switching gears.

_Hope you’re free to chat_, reads the message from Jessica Jones. Michaela would take a minute or two to panic about that (because from Jessica that is anything but a friendly invitation to shoot the shit), but her phone rings a second later and she answers it on auto pilot.

“_Confirm something for me_,” Jessica demands, skipping right past any sort of greeting.

“Uh,” Michaela says, blinking. “Shoot.”

“_Were you in the hospital last year?_”

Michael’s thoughts snap to her time with SHIELD instantly. Her pulse ticks faster. “Um.” She swallows and says, “November fifth through the seventh, that’s when I got discharged.” There’re no pleasant circumstances that would prompt Jessica to call her over this, and Michaela is all too aware of that. “I have a guess, but why are you asking?”

“_I found the connection between the missing people, and you’re not going to like it._”

_Fuck_. “Yeah, yeah that’s about what I figured.”

“_They were all in the hospital – some of them at Lenox Hill like you, others scattered around Manhattan – same time period as you, same symptoms. All of them exposed to whatever gas got released during the Avengers brawl-of-the-week. A few of them stayed longer than you, apparently because they were doing worse – can’t really get details unless I go the illegal route so this is what I’ve scrounged up from interrogating people over the phone._ _This mean anything to you?”_

Spidey and Matt might be the only ones among the vigilante buddies to know her so called _origin story_, but Jessica is far from incompetent; she’s probably guessed that Michaela’s powers are a result of the gas, if only because of how coincidental the timing is. She might not know Michaela’s name but she knows Blackout came on the scene only a few weeks after the attack. It’s not hard to make the connection between her status as an up-and-coming hero and a string of disappearances involving people who experienced the same unknown chemical attack as her.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

Someone’s targeting Inhumans.

And Michaela’s got an uncomfortable inkling as to who that someone is.

“This fucking _wizard_.”

“_That’s really what you’re calling this guy? A wizard?_”

“Okay, you can ask anyone, I’m not creative with nicknames.”

“_Right. Whatever. That’s my big revelation. I don’t have any leads on any of these people, but I’ll keep you posted._”

“God, yeah, thank you, Jessica, this is…” Terrifying, mostly, but she’s appreciative, nonetheless. Jessica didn’t have to do this for her, share information with her. “Thank you.”

“_Hope you get somewhere with your wizard_.”

Michaela stuffs the phone back into her bag, her stomach in knots. Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, splintering the black with shots of color, she shoves down the urge to scream, chokes everything down and _breathes_. Breathes through the ache in her chest and the tingling at the base of her spine. Through the glances she’s no doubt getting, strangers curious or annoyed about the woman practically panting into her hands and bowed so far forward her forehead is nearly grinding into her knees.

She’s having a panic attack on the subway, and _amazingly_, it’s not the first time this has happened. Fuck, she hates this, _hates it_, the fist gripping her lungs in a vice, the sweat at her temples and the cold, clamminess of her hands. She hates this fucking wizard. She hates—

God, it’s not worth it.

Wheezing out a breath, Michaela sits back, eyes closed against the glare of the lights. Her heart is still racing and her hands are trembling, even clasped together in her lap, but she’s coming down from it, slowly, moment by moment. No one’s tried to touch her, to see what’s wrong, and on some level it’s jarring that no one would lend a hand to someone so obviously in distress, but really, she’s only grateful for it; in this state she’s liable to fry anyone who puts a hand on her. Or the entire subway car. It’s a toss-up at this point how much control she could muster in a split second to prevent whatever catastrophe she might inflict on these people.

The subway rocks around her, and the low murmuring of the couple beside her (a foot of space between them, which prior to her attack hadn’t been there) almost soothing with how she doesn’t has to pay attention to it, can just let it wash over her and drown out the static of her thoughts. She tries very hard not to think at all the rest of the way home, and her success rate is probably somewhere in the low thirties, percentage wise.

She’ll deal with the wizard, she will – though now she’s thinking Matt might’ve been right all those weeks ago. She’s gone it alone for quite a while now; it might be time to let someone in on this.


	13. interlude ii | captain america is a SAP and michaela can prove it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaela lives to make Spider-Man jealous.

“Holy fuck, that’s Captain America.”

Michaela, in her infinite wisdom (and apparently having learned _nothing _from her encounter with Thor) says this out loud. In broad daylight. Surrounded by dozens of jaded New Yorkers who give not one shit about anything she has to say. Aside from the little old lady she’s in the middle of helping transfer her belongings from her apartment into a moving van.

“You’re drooling, honey,” the little old lady says, her mouth twisted with wry amusement. She sets down the box she’s holding on the truck bed, freeing up her hands to pat Michaela’s consolingly on the back, though Michaela senses a shred of condescension in the gesture, which she chooses (graciously) to ignore for the sake of the woman’s… reputation. Or something. “He looks even better now than he did on those posters when I was young, yes, but have a little decorum. You’re a superhero, too, no?”

Michaela grimaces. Ugh. She doesn’t want to be compared to Steve Rogers. The man is a literal living legend; Michaela’s lucky if she can pay her rent each month, and she hangs out with what is presumably a high schooler and the so-called Devil of Hell’s Kitchen in her spare time. Rogers lunches with the fucking president (probably – it sounds like something they’d make him do, anyway). If he’s in the major leagues of this superhero gig, she’s still playing _swing-and-a-miss _off a t-ball stand. She feels insulted _on his behalf _just to have their hero personas mentioned in the same sentence.

“Ma’am,” Michaela says, then yelps immediately after when the lady smacks her bicep with her purse, because apparently _she’s not old enough to be called ma’am_, okay, sure, let’s go with that. “Uh, shit, miss—”

“It’s Faith, Blackout, no need to be so formal.”

Michaela has a very uncomfortable flashback to her first time meeting Spider-Man. At least there’s no chance of her getting launched off the side of a building in this scenario. “Okay, Faith it is. I appreciate the, uh, support? But me and Steve Rogers are not the same, like, at all.”

As if to prove her point, several store fronts down from them, Steve Rogers is currently posing with a group of college-aged kids, grinning beatifically into the camera and giving the cheesiest victory sign she has ever seen in her life. Again, living legend, leader of the Avengers, the moral backbone of America even when the government is being led by a bunch of corporate-pandering shit-heels. The man is so far beyond her in every sense of the word that… well. She doesn’t have a set metaphor for this, it’s never come up before in her idle daydreaming about befriending the Avengers.

Point is, he’s amazing, and she’s just. Not.

Faith seems to agree with her, judging by the way she’s eyeing the way Rogers’ shirt is straining over his mountain-esque shoulders. And hey, Michaela appreciates the man, he’s as godly as a mere mortal can get (Thor being the obvious exception), but she’s more interested in that steely moral center of his.

Also, his eyes. Fuck, those lashes are _insane_, Michaela would kill for eyelashes like that! And he just lucked into them! She’s seen the pre-serum pictures, she knows those came with the original model. Goddamn him for being so pretty, even if she is partial to brunets these days.

Shaking herself out of her starstruck stupor, Michaela hefts the last of the boxes from the stoop of Faith’s apartment building and slides them into the truck, tucking them neatly beside what’s already inside. The furniture was a bitch to get out onto the street, especially that coffee table that Faith claims is from the 1890s; Michaela’s just grateful that her nephew stuck around long enough to haul the armoire down with her, because Michaela may actually have gotten herself squished to death if she tried maneuvering it down the stairs by herself.

God, how did this even become her day? Fucking Spidey, he was the one who wanted to take a day trip to Manhattan for some fanboyish reason, she just tagged along because it was either that or waste a half dozen hours to panicking about what shit Spidey might get himself into all on his lonesome in a semi-unfamiliar borough. And he ditched her! Got a call on his real phone, stuttered out a squeaky response (so probably in trouble with the parents again), promised he’d make it up to her, then webbed his way home.

That’s about when Faith flagged her down, because, see, her nephew had to get to work soon, but she had a deadline to get all her things out of her apartment, and couldn’t Blackout spare just a little of her time to help a poor old woman move a few trinkets down from the third floor?

Trinkets. Of all things, she said _trinkets. _

Michaela is, first and foremost, a fool, and she accepts this about herself pretty readily, but this, this is the height of her folly right here. Believing that her powers somehow set her above the possibility of having to provide free labor to the elderly.

An hour and half later, Michaela is damp _everywhere _with sweat, her hands clammy beneath the gloves, her sweatshirt clinging to the small of her back, her goggles half-fogged over with condensation, and don’t even get her started about the situation in her bra. Her _athletic bra_, fuck her life. Her spine’s been creaking unhelpfully for the last forty minutes, she nearly twisted her ankle on her sixth trip down the stairs, and she knows for a fact that she is going to wake up tomorrow feeling like how Matt normally looks after a night of karate-chopping twenty-some armed men.

She also feels like this is what Spidey means when he laments the fact that he’s only ever doing _small-fry heroics_, even when compared to what Daredevil and the rest get up to. Like, don’t get her wrong, she doesn’t _mind _offering assistance to someone in need, no matter how tedious the task; she’s not in this for the fame and glory, or whatever compensation the Avengers probably get for their do-gooding. But she hasn’t felt so much like an over-worked pack mule since, uh. Since the last time she helped someone move.

She got pizza out of that, though, so. Not a completely fruitless endeavor.

She’s getting sidetracked. Captain America, that’s what’s important right now.

Captain America, who has just finished with his selfie-seeking groupies and is now heading straight for Faith and Michaela.

Michaela squeaks, just a little, just the tiniest of mouse-like noises as her shoulders draw back instinctively.

She’s more than a little tempted to throw herself into the back of the truck and just hitch a ride to wherever Faith is moving to. But alas, Faith has no desire to aid her in her escape, because she cackles a bit under her breath, pinches Michaela’s masked cheek, then wrangles the truck’s hatch down and slips around to the passenger seat. Michaela blinks, struck dumb, while the truck rumbles off. She twists around at the last second, feeling like she’s suffering through whiplash, but – yup, Faith’s on her way to her new home and Michaela’s within spitting distance of the good captain.

Michaela’s dad was right – there is no hell. Hell is earth, and only the sweet release of death can free you from the torment.

There’s no being subtle when you’re decked out head-to-toe in nylon and electric-blue accents, though Michaela sure as hell tries to become one with the (admittedly minimal) crowd on the sidewalk. She’s not all that successful, seeing as nearly everyone who _doesn’t _recognize her irritably shoves her aside when she tries to sneak past them, and everyone who _does _have an inkling of who she is has their phone out and trained on her.

So, all in all, she’s not surprised when she hears a disproportionately soft, “Hey, you’re Blackout, aren’t you?” but she does in fact seize up so badly that something grates painfully in shoulder.

Biting hard into her cheek, Michaela gives up the pretense of blending in and pivots on her heel, coming face-to-chest with Steve Rogers himself. She blinks again, then twice more in rapid succession. Okay, this is just like Thor – not a dream, and not a meeting she can afford to fuck up. Right, cool. Michaela can just… channel Blackout’s social skills. That’s feasible, definitely.

“That’s… me,” is what escapes her mouth, and yes, the pause is as long and awkward as possible.

Fuck.

Captain Rogers smiles in sympathy, which. Unfair. Every Avenger has a devastating smile, whatever the meaning behind it. She did not mentally prepare herself for this today, she’s going to _die_, right here on a sidewalk in the middle of Manhattan, and Captain America is going to have to report her to his Avengers buddies and tell them that her death was literally the result of him _smiling at her_.

But, miraculously, instead of asking if Michaela was raised by deer and if she’s always mentally staring into headlights, he says, “I’m surprised we haven’t seen you around the Tower recently. Whenever Thor’s on-world, he talks about bringing you over for a day of bonding.” His smile flickers with amusement. “He honestly didn’t mean to get you in the tabloids’ crosshairs, but he finds it hilarious that everyone genuinely thinks you’re his daughter.”

Of course he does. Objectively, it’s really damn funny. Too bad Michaela is still getting memes from Spidey about it, all of them accompanied by the demand that she admit to being able to lift the hammer. She conjures up her least sketchy smile nonetheless. “Can’t really speak for the masses, but I have a friend who won’t let go of that. He’s like a dog with a bone, and he sends me that article, the original one or whatever, at least once a week.” She snorts a laugh, recalling his reaction when the news broke. “And he also wants me to call Thor out for being an _absentee dad_.”

“Sounds like a good friend.”

“Yeah, he’s… something alright. Um, about Thor, though…”

“He was serious,” Rogers says, catching her off guard. “About you visiting the Tower. You and Daredevil. He said something about you two being a package deal.”

Michaela’s cheeks flush, and she has to resist the urge to pat at her face to make sure her mask hasn’t shifted any. God, she’s never living that conversation with Thor down, ever. “Oh, that’s…” She lets out a stilted laugh. “That’s not something I… Hell, to be honest, I have enough trouble keeping it together when it’s one on one. Willingly putting myself in a room with all of the Avengers? Think my heart’d give out.”

Rogers opens his mouth to reply, but it’s then that he seems to cotton on to how visibly they’re altering foot traffic. People are more than content to force their way past Blackout, but Captain America? He clears a path as broad as his shoulders just by standing there. His brow furrows as he takes that in, and Michaela prepares a shaky excuse for her to get the hell back to her home turf, is practically ready to blurt it out, consequences of running away from an Avenger be damned, but then Rogers catches her eye and cants his head, silently asking if she’ll follow him.

And. Well. Michaela already said she’s a fool, right?

She follows in his wake as he turns around and heads back in the direction he presumably came from, though she notes that they’re _not _heading towards the Tower. Thank god for small mercies, because she was serious about her heart failing her.

The Tower’s out, but that doesn’t help her whittle down the possibilities of where Captain America might be taking her in the heart of Manhattan. Come to think of it, though, she’d heard he wasn’t living in the Tower with the other Avengers anymore, that he might never have been there in the first place after the fall of SHIELD. People speculate that he’s residing in Brooklyn now (for what they consider to be obvious reasons) but they don’t know where he lives. And the fucking vultures of the media have certainly tried to glean that information from him in a variety of ways, some of them probably illegal. He’s in Brooklyn often, true, but he’s usually seen in a mostly activist role, helping out at the local shelters, or visiting the VA, or even just out running with Sam Wilson. That might be enough to suggest he’s got a home in Brooklyn again, if not for the fact that he does all of those things in Manhattan, as well. She’s even seen pics and footage of him in Queens at rallies and giving lectures at the smaller colleges.

Michaela doesn’t see the point in pinpointing exactly where he’s living; sure she still believes that his heart’s in Brooklyn, but that place can’t be exactly pleasant for him, at least not all the time. It’s gotta remind him of everything – every_one_ – he’s lost. If Michaela were in that situation, she’d probably never step foot in Hell’s Kitchen again.

That’s her, though. And she doesn’t know the guy well enough to make a judgement call about him. Maybe he likes the familiarity of Brooklyn, even if nothing is quite the same as how he left it.

In any case, they’re in Manhattan, and Rogers looks as comfortable here as he does anywhere else. He’s instantly recognizable out of the suit, likely because of all the charity events and the like he does, and people really do part for him like it’s instinct, like they don’t even have to think about it. He doesn’t flaunt his notoriety, though, she’s noticed; he’s not trying to intimidate his way through the crowds, he’s only taking advantage of the reactions people have to see him live and in the flesh.

A few minutes of walking brings them to a small café that Michaela personally didn’t know existed until this moment. She tries (and subsequently fails) to read the loopy script that spells out the place’s name above the door, but then she’s distracted by Captain Rogers opening the door for her and gesturing inside. She pauses, glancing down pointedly at her get-up. Subtle she is not right now.

Rogers grins at her. “This place can handle Captain America waltzing in every now and then; they’re not gonna blink at Blackout making a special appearance, I promise.”

That’s good enough for her. With a lazy salute in Rogers’ direction, she ducks inside the café, which is populated only by a few people whose eyes don’t lift from their laptop screens at the chime of the door, and two baristas behind the counter. One of them, the blonde, does a slight double-take at Michaela’s entrance, but then they must spot Rogers over her shoulder because they offer her a small smile and a nod. Okay, so far so good. Now she just has to not… fuck up her entire life in the space of a ten minute conversation.

Anticipated success rate? Less than five percent. But hey, that’s just her being pessimistic. Maybe things will work out for a change.

There’s a thought.

Michaela winds her way through the smattering of glossy-topped tables and heads straight for the booth furthest from the door. They may be cool and groovy with her being here in costume, but that doesn’t mean she deliberately wants to draw attention to herself. Rogers doesn’t comment so she assumes he’s fine with this arrangement, and they settle across from one another at the booth. Michaela’s seat squeaks as she shifts, trying to get comfortable, and she nearly groans aloud at the cruelty of the universe. As it is, she has to bite down again on the inside of her cheek so that her _internal _griping doesn’t become _external_, because yeah, that’s the impression she wants to give Captain America: that she’s about as mature as your average kindergartner, and that she can’t _fucking talk _without embarrassing herself to death.

Mentally berating herself for the almost-slip, she digs deep and scrounges up a sort of convincing smile as she looks back at Rogers. Except.

Huh.

Rogers has company.

The captain seems unconcerned with this new addition; he shuffles a little to the side to make room (without _squeaking_, goddammit), twisting slightly to rest his arm on the back of the booth’s seat and angling himself so that he’s facing both Michaela and the man at his three o’clock. How nice of him. She figured he’d be big on manners, to a degree; not like, with baddies or anything, but with simple things like including everyone in a conversation. She’s a teeny-tiny bit happy to be proven right on that count, but. Uh. Who the fuck is this guy?

He’s Rogers age, she thinks, or close to it. Longish brown hair that curls a little around his ears and chin, otherwise hanging down in lank strands and partially stuffed beneath a frayed, well-worn baseball cap. She squints at it, confused; that’s not the Mets or the Yankees, or… Where did he even _get _a Brooklyn Dodgers hat? There’s no way those are in circulation anymore, it’s been decades since the team got shipped to California.

Besides the outdated cap, he’s layered himself in at least three different shirts, all of them oversize and in muted colors – burgundy, dark gray, black. She thinks one of them might be a Henley? Men’s fashion isn’t exactly one of her key interests. Then there’s the jacket, which. She’d call it overkill but she catches sight of the look on the man’s scruffy face and. It’s. Haunting is the only word that comes to mind, that comes _close _to capturing his expression. Eyes that are shaded more gray than blue, heavy brows that look like they don’t see much action outside of forming a confused-slash-menacing furrow, prominent cheekbones that she suspects are less ‘attractive feature’ and more ‘evidence of starvation.’ Plus, he’s got a fucking killer jawline.

He looks – Michaela squints harder, chasing the fleeting thought of familiarity as it runs through her head.

Fuck, she knows this guy. But where—

It doesn’t help her to dwell on the thought, so for now she shelves it, resisting the urge to set her fingers to tapping against the table and instead takes a moment to breathe, to settle herself. Then she says, feigning nonchalance, “You guys aren’t gonna out me to the papers if I take off the mask, are you?”

Rogers blinks at the question, probably not having expected it. His companion cocks his head, assessing her. Neither of them speaks for a moment. She spreads her hands in an absent gesture, adding, “I feel overdressed, is all. And, to be honest, I’ve had the feeling that Tony Stark hacked his way into figuring out my identity the second Thor posted that photo of us, so. With Captain Rogers at least, I’m guessing I’m not risking much.”

“You’re not,” Rogers says, his voice softer with the threads of apology spun through it. “Thor wasn’t aware that Stark was looking into you, but by the time any of us thought to put him in check, he’d already gone and done it. I really am sorry he took that choice away from you.” He pauses, considering. “You might’ve gotten the same treatment from Natasha either way, though. She’s what you might call… overprotective.”

Tucking away that nugget of information for later, Michaela shrugs, unbothered. She hooks a finger under her mask and tugs it loose, letting it sag around her throat. The goggles she pushes up atop her head, blinking to adjust to losing their filter. Somehow, like this, her breathing comes just that bit easier. She’s never realized how freeing it is to be _herself _while she’s also being Blackout. It’s not something she’s even really done with Matt; she’s always kitted out in her gear when they’re out doing super things.

She sticks out her hand, her smile much closer to genuine this time. “Michaela King. It’s, uh, it’s an honor to meet you, Captain Rogers. Big fan. You’re like, my role model as a hero.” That’s not creepy, is it? Oh, god, please don’t let that come off as creepy, she doesn’t want to get hauled off to some underground prison for accidentally threatening the Captain’s safety or his virtue or whatever charges they plan to stick her with.

Rogers, though, he smiles right back at her, reaching out to shake her hand, his grip firm but gentle, mindful of his enhanced strength. “Steve Rogers. And you can drop the _captain_ if you want. Between you and me, the title’s more honorary than anything. That, and I don’t much like how people use it to set me apart from everyone else. I’m not better than any other person in this city, and the two of us are equals anyway.”

Michaela opens her mouth, before just as quickly snapping it shut. Steve Rogers… wants to treat her like she’s his equal? He wants _her _to treat _him _like they’re _equals_? He would, though, wouldn’t he? The little guy sticking up for littler guys, and all that, he’d be the first person to advocate for the legitimacy of vigilantes, so long as said vigilantes aren’t bat-shit or harming the local civilians. A half smile tugs at her mouth as she lets that sink in. What a fuckin’ weirdo. Consequently, she’s awful glad she’s had him as her favorite superhero for all these years. Like calls to like, or something.

“So, can I ask?”

Rogers lifts a brow at the question, though the thinning of his smile says he knows what she’s getting at. He doesn’t answer, just slides his arm down a little to prod gently at his companion’s shoulder. The guy flicks him a wary glance, which is a change from how he’s been staring intently at Michaela for the last couple minutes. His shoulders tighten at the suggestion of him being introduced, and while that’s… unsettling, sort of, Steve Rogers clearly vouches for the man, and even if it shouldn’t be, that’s enough to settle Michaela’s nerves.

“You don’t have to give me a real name,” she says, after the silence has stretched into the uncomfortable territory and she’s broken it at least twice with the fucking squeaking again. She grimaces, unsure how that comes off; the man’s blank-eyed stare isn’t helping matters, either. “I mean. That sounds strange, huh? I just… I’m literally here ‘cause Rogers asked me to come chat with him. I’m not anyone important. And it’s not like I don’t know a thing or two about wanting to hide my identity, so. Your choice, man, you give me whatever you want to. And if that’s nothing…” She shrugs. “Then it’s nothing.”

The silence persists, so she adds, “Obviously you can’t trust me, considering we’ve literally just met, but, well, not to take advantage of the title or anything, but if Captain America is in your corner, then _I _trust _you_.” A huff of a laugh escapes her. “I’m stupidly naïve like that, just ask Jessica Jones.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s naïve, exactly—”

“It’s naïve,” Michaela says, but also _what_, because the man next to Rogers says the exact same thing at the exact same time. She blinks at him; he tilts his head again. Rogers is smiling like a fool at the guy, though, so that’s a win for Michaela. Any talking at all is worthy of the Captain’s approval, apparently. She can work with that.

She taps her nose (a habit now, one she doesn’t even remember picking up), points at the man in agreement. “I shouldn’t trust people on someone else’s word, at the very least not on the word of someone I don’t know personally, but oh well, that’s where I’m at in my life right now. The superhero perspective kinda changes things for you, I guess.”

That gets a slight nod from him, and he seems to sit a little less stiffly in his seat, his shoulders falling from where they’ve been hunched around his ears. His eyes land on her then drop to the table, then snap back up to hers. His bites at his lower lip, his expression pensive and analytic. Then he says, “Call me James.”

Michaela sees Rogers straighten at that but she pays him no mind, just ups the wattage of her smile at James, trying to appear as friendly and approachable as possible. She doesn’t mind it so much when she’s not working, when there’s no expectation of _niceness_ from her.

“James it is.” And that’s that. She’s not going to ply him with questions, she doesn’t even see a point in attempting that. Instead she looks at Rogers, who’s since recovered from his momentary surprise and is watching James with bright, fond eyes. And, well. That’s telling. “Er, Steve?” His head turns, and he blinks, clearly re-focusing on her. She smiles to let him know she doesn’t mind, though he still flushes a little, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Which is. Adorable. And frankly just too much for her poor fucking heart. “We have gotten _way _off-track, but uh, I think the point of all this was to tell you that me going to the Tower probably isn’t going to happen in the foreseeable future.”

“You really don’t want to drop by for a visit? Natasha would like you,” he says, _as if this is an_ _incentive_.

Michaela is, rightfully, terrified of the Black Widow. She admires her, thinks she’s absolutely kick-ass and criminally underrated, but that doesn’t really translate in wanting to meet her. It’s like with Jessica Jones – there’s that pervasive fear that Michaela’s going to land herself on awkward footing and get knifed for her sinful transgressions. She’s not _Emmett_, Christ, but she is, by nature, incredibly prone to contracting foot-in-mouth disease. The reason she gets on so well with Spider-Man is because he has the same problem, and Matt just thinks she’s amusing, so he doesn’t get annoyed with her.

Natasha Romanoff? She might be more inclined to show Michaela an in-depth demonstration of that thigh-choking maneuver of hers, and unfortunately for everyone involved, that’s not one of Michaela’s kinks.

“I like life,” she says, which makes James snort and Rogers—she’d call it a pout on anyone else but… okay, nope, that’s a pout. America’s golden boy is pouting at her. If Michaela believed in God she’d wonder why the fuck he’s testing her like this today. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d… you guys are great, like I said. That’s kinda the problem. Despite what you may think about me, I am very easily intimidated. I will experience near-crippling anxiety if I’m in a room full of Avengers, and I _will _probably throw up into a potted plant. I’m not sure your want that on your conscience, Captain.”

“She’s got your number, Steve,” James murmurs, which thrills Michaela to no fucking end.

“Oh, come on, we’re just people.”

“With the exception of Thor?” Michaela asks, smirking.

“…that’s fair,” Steve admits, laughing. “No one quite compares to Thor.”

“Yeah, I’d say so. What is he again? A godly, alien prince?”

“Alright, alright, we’re a little more than _just _people. But I still say you should visit. You’re a hero, Michaela, despite what the police have to say about it.”

“…you’re much more inspirational in real life than you are in those PSAs, Cap.”

“PSAs?” James quirks a brow at Steve.

Steve Rogers, Captain America, a literal living legend – and he’s _blushing_, holy fuck, Michaela almost can’t believe her eyes. The red’s high on his cheeks, bright and vibrant against his Irish-pale skin, and, oh, that’s—um. He’s not looking too happy with her, his blue eyes far from threatening but the tilt of his mouth suggesting he would have _really_ appreciated her not making that last comment. Michaela, sensing she’s stepped on what is, quite possibly, the most patriotic landmine of all time, backtracks quickly.

“They’re nothing,” she says, leaning forward enough that James’ attention snaps back to her. Yikes, that’s a quick reaction time. She’d call him paranoid, but then again, she’s not sleeping too deeply these days, either. She figures a friend of Captain America has a few secrets, and he’s entitled to them, but it’s a little exhausting just watching him, he’s so tense. He hasn’t relaxed for a moment since he sat down, at least not that she’s seen. “Forget I mentioned them. Forget I said anything, really, I’m, ya know. Known for my bullshit.”

_Known for my bullshit_? What the fuck, brain?

The problem is (beyond her inability to keep from _stepping in it repeatedly, Christ, why does anyone put up with her?_) that James already has his phone out, and he’s tapping away at the screen with—gloves? He’s wearing gloves? They’re those smart-gloves, or whatever they’re called, the ones that let you interact with your phone while you’re wearing them, but it’s. Summer. And he’s wearing all those layers… Maybe he’s got a problem regulating his body temperature, or. Michaela knows people who have absolutely shit circulation, and they always seem to feel the cold sharper than anyone else, so. That could be it.

If only she had the balls to ask.

Ugh, like that would even matter. Matt’s got his Catholic guilt, but Michaela doesn’t need a priest ranting at her to feel like she’s sorry for everything she’s ever done in her life. The anxiety takes care of that just fine, thanks.

Something not unlike a smile passes over James’ features as he looks down at his phone, which he’s turned sideways in the universal sign that he’s now watching a video. She can’t hear anything so she assumes he’s put captions on, but Steve clearly knows what the video is, going by the dawning look of horror that’s creeping over his own face. Michaela suspects the only reason he doesn’t make a grab for the phone is because she’s sitting across from them. And maybe because he’s appreciating the way amusement transforms James’ face, softening the hard edges and bringing color to his ashen cheeks.

He looks like a completely different person, somehow, and Michaela can’t wrap her head around it.

When she catches Steve’s eye (James isn’t sparing either of them a glance at this point, which in itself is a little astonishing) she mouths _I’m so fucking sorry_, to which he shrugs helplessly and mouths back _Nothing to be sorry for_. From the sagging of his shoulders and the blush still burning at the tips of his ears, she imagines the timing could have been better for this. How James didn’t know about the PSAs, she has no fucking clue; they were the biggest meme a few years back, and they’ve made a comeback just this year for some reason that’s lost on her. The life-cycle of memes isn’t something she’s devoted much time to studying, unlike a certain spiderling she could name. And even if James isn’t big on the joys of the internet, she finds it strange that these PSAs are completely new to him.

Although, she has noticed a… a _lilt_ to his voice, a cadence that might indicate that he’s not originally from America. Not quite an accent, at least not a strong one; she couldn’t pinpoint a country if you put a gun to her head. But it might explain how he’s gone this long without encountering Rappin’ with Cap for this long – she’s not sure how well-received he’d be in other countries.

Whatever the case, Michaela thinks it’s about time she got the hell out of Dodge. Captain America _pouting at her _was bad enough; she does not need to see his Disappointed Eyebrows in real life, the online pictures are damning enough.

She rights her mask and goggles, flashing Steve a fleeting smile just before she does so in answer to the questioning frown he gives her. “I gotta get going,” she says, which gets James’ eyes peering up at her, the bulk of his focus still on his phone. “I promised a friend I’d meet him for” – she hesitates, unsure how to phrase this without it coming off as… not what she’s intending it to come off as – “a sparring session,” she says, grudgingly honest. What kind of friends go over to each other’s apartments just to kick the shit out of each other? Her and Matt, apparently. She lifts a hand, sparks licking in between her fingers as she wiggles them for effect. “Close quarters combat isn’t my forte, so I’m taking the help where I can get it.”

Steve, no longer tomato red, thank god, chuckles and nods, like this is normal. Fuck, maybe it is. She doesn’t hang out with the _super _supers, this might be an average Tuesday for them. “Hey, if you’re looking for some practical combat training… that’s just another reason to come to the Tower. Natasha and I can teach you a thing or two.”

“Uh. No thanks,” tumbles out of Michaela’s mouth before she has the wherewithal to _abort abort abort_. Panicked, just a little, she continues, “That’s a ridiculously generous offer, but, it’s, you know, like I said. I… like life.”

_And you could snap my spine in half like a piece of chalk _goes unsaid, but she thinks Steve understands just the same.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll think about the Tower thing,” she says, as a sort of consolation for everything else he’s had to deal with from her today. “S’not gonna be any time soon, and I really, _really _don’t want photos of Blackout fraternizing in Stark Tower” – James snorts again, another win – “but I can promise to consider it as a potential event in the future.” She stands, adjusting her suit and getting an uncomfortable reminder of how fucking sweaty she is; she needs like three consecutive showers if she wants to feel remotely clean again.

“It really was an honor to meet you, Steve Rogers. And James, you’re a delight, buddy. If you’re ever in Hell’s Kitchen, me and Daredevil are good for a fun night out. It involves lots of me watching Daredevil roughhouse with gang members of varying nationalities and snarky commentary, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Michaela swears his mouth twitches in response to her offer, not quite a smile but verging on it, though he doesn’t do much more than raise both brows at her as an actual answer. She shrugs, unfazed. It’s not like she was expecting him to jump at the opportunity to make a day trip to Hell’s Kitchen; fuck, she loves the place and half the time she wants to raze it to the ground, start over from scratch. James can come by any time he wants – she’ll make sure she mentions it to Matt – or he can make sure they never see each other again.

Steve makes like he’s going to get out of the booth, possibly to walk her to the door or something else equally as chivalrous, but she waves him back down either way. One, he’d have to make James get up, and like this guy is still powering through the Cap PSAs, he doesn’t need to be disturbed; two, she’d rather leave by herself, anyway, because _god_, does she not want the tabloids seeing her out and about with Captain America. They might’ve already snagged a picture of the two of them walking to this café, so she’s not in the mood to give them any more ammunition.

She will never be over the media storm that was _Blackout Is Thor’s Illegitimate Child_. She doesn’t need _Blackout and Captain America: Secret Lovers? _or some such bullshit on top of that.

Michaela slips out of the café, only looking back once over her shoulder and waving in true dorky fashion when she sees Rogers tracking her through the window. James, not-so-predictably, doesn’t bother making sure she’s actually left the vicinity; those Rappin’ with Cap videos _are _mesmerizing, in the sort of way a car crash is mesmerizing.

Once she’s ducked into an alley and changed back into her everyday wear, she fights her way onto a subway car and drops into the first seat she comes across, already pulling out her hero phone.

_Spider-Child you’re going to be so jealous of me_

**omg blackout what did you do**

_I’ve now met not one, but TWO Avengers. I’m officially cooler than you_

**WHAT WHO DID U MEET**

**BLACKOUT **

**TELL MEEEEEEEE PLS**

_Who’s strong and brave, here to save the American way…? _

**shdkshfhsncrikehfhf**

**U MET CAPTAIN AMERICA W/O ME????????**

**HOW DARE BLACKOUT**

**HOW DARE**

_It’s your fault for ditching me! You could’ve met an Avenger, but you had RESPONSIBILITIES like a chump_

**u betrayed me blackout**

_Only because you betrayed me first _

**……………… **

_Tell you what. Next time an Avenger randomly crosses paths with me I’ll call you_

**that’s all i ask **

_You’ve got a deal, Spidey_

**ok ok cool**

**so does he smell like freedom and bald eagles??? **

_Didn’t get close enough to sniff him, kid, sorry to disappoint _

_He does have mountain ranges for shoulders though good christ _

**tmi blackout ew **

_This is why I betrayed you _

**!!!!!!**


	14. chapter eleven | matt murdock and co.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt has friends and Michaela finally gets to meet them.
> 
> (As a side-note, y'all should go check out Ricecakes123's story, "Two of a Kind." I love it to pieces, it's where Claire (from the not-civil war chapter, if that's ringing any bells) came from, and it's by one of my best friends. It's also finished, about fifty chapters, and over a hundred thousand words so. It'll keep you busy for a while lmao)

****

“You were serious before? You think he’s a wizard?”

“It’s not the technical term, okay, that’s just what sounded right at the time.”

“Well, this would explain your sky-diving trip to Queens…”

Michaela groans and flops down on Matt’s couch, legs sprawled out across the back of it. He’s smiling at her, amused, and now that he’s gotten the full story from her he’s not as tense as he was when she first walked into his apartment. If laughing at her expense gets him in a better mood she’s not going to question it; Matt broods enough already, she doesn’t want to be one of the many reasons for it.

She hadn’t planned on coming here today. Without school she’s been taking as many shifts as she can at _Cody’s_ and looking for side job because she is in dire need of the extra cash. Consequently, she’s had to take step back from going out as Blackout, and it would be weighing more on her conscience if Matt hadn’t promised to keep the streets (relatively) safe until she’s in a more stable position financially. Really, she’d feel guilty no matter what, but she knows he’s been making use of the vigilante buddies club and having Jessica Jones and Luke Cage swing by when he’s out of his depth. Or, at least, when she gets him to _admit _he’s out of his depth.

But, anyway, today. No shifts, miraculously, and no villains out running amuck in the streets. This morning she’d been considering the merits of lifting her temporary (and self-imposed) hero ban just for a few hours when Matt called and asked if she wanted to drop by his apartment. Which. _Yes_, of fucking course, she’s wanted to see how the guy lives ever since she learned he’s Daredevil. A strange catalyst for the desire, probably, but Matt Murdock, charming blind lawyer, didn’t provoke curiosity from her about his home life.

She figures the invitation is out of some misguided attempt at earning back her trust, or, well – misguided in the sense that he thinks he’s really _lost _her trust in the first place. She’s not going to dissuade him of that idea just yet, though; he’s never been unkind to her, but the extra effort is nice, she’s not going to lie to herself.

Matt’s apartment isn’t – she hadn’t _had _expectations, not really. For one, it’s Hell’s Kitchen, and no one living here has the means to live luxuriously. At least, not where she and Matt live. So no fantastical daydreams about Matt’s secret mansion or anything like that. But it’s… nice. Large windows let in an abundance of cheery sunlight, highlighting the open plan of the apartment in a way that doesn’t happy in her own place. His kitchen is only sectioned off by the island, and his bedroom’s separated from the main living space by a sliding door. There’s a staircase in the corner that she’s yet to venture up, but otherwise she’s seen most of his place and she kind of loves it.

One caveat, though. There is no fucking way he should be able to afford this place on the salary of a lawyer who takes more pro-bono cases than he does paying ones.

Apparently at night the signs across the street (neon and ostentatious even in the daylight) are unbearable, but hey, that’s not much of a problem for Matt, so he gets a sweet apartment at a damn near criminal price.

The situation is amusing to her even though she gets this persistent feeling of guilt about it. Matt doesn’t mind, at least, so there’s that.

“He did this sparkler thing with his hands,” Michaela says, frustrated that she doesn’t have a better description of that move yet. She waves her own hands to demonstrate, a little more trusting that Matt will get the gist of the movements. His smile widens a fraction. “Made a circle in the air and I ran right _through _it, which is how he dropped my ass out over Queens. And the first time I saw him, he had these shields… I thought they were tech at first, holographic armor or something. But with the whole portal deal, I dunno. Magic, man, that’s where I’m at right now. Spidey agrees with me, though we’re still debating about whether he’s more DnD wizard or Harry Potter-esque.”

“The lack of a wand probably excludes him from having gone to Hogwarts.”

Michaela taps her nose and points at Matt where he’s sitting on the armrest of the chair across from her, arms loosely crossed over his chest. She hasn’t seen him in casual clothes before, because she doesn’t exactly count his black workout gear he wears under the suit, so this has been an exciting time for her. He looks good, no shock there, his t-shirt and jeans somehow elevated to an unreasonably high level of style just by virtue of him wearing them.

Meanwhile Michaela continues to look like a half-starved college student in her ratty hoodie (faded from so many washes she’s not sure what band it was originally referencing) and leggings. Life, too, continues to be deeply unfair.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” she mutters, lifting her shoulders a little, not quite a shrug. “I’m pretty sure Spider-Child is just like, stubbornly clinging to Harry Potter because he’s still waiting for his Hogwarts letter.”

“Aren’t we all?” Matt says sagely.

Michaela turns her head, squints at him a little. He cocks a brow, challenging her to say something. How he knows she’s _squinting _is beyond her but he’s definitely reading her mood right, because she was two seconds away from asking where Matt keeps his robes and if he’s ever tried kicking off with a broom. It’d be frightening, how much information he can get from her without being able to _see _her, if she didn’t find it so damn fascinating.

“Back to my point,” Michaela says.

“You’ve been circling that for a while now,” Matt replies. Michaela only wants to smack him a _little_ for his cheek.

Again, life is unfair. Murdock looks _cute as hell _when he’s being a little shit. Somehow the glasses make it worse.

“My _point_,” she grits out, flapping a hand at him, to which he graciously lifts his own, palms out, in a show of surrender, “is that I don’t know what the fuck to do with him. I can’t give Jessica a good enough description of him for her to find anything substantial on him, let alone track him myself somehow. And now I’m agonizing over the possibility that he’s the one targeting Inhumans for whatever goddamn reason someone might do that.”

It’s not that she hasn’t tried to look for him; in between shifts at work, when she’s not conked out in inconvenient places in her apartment, she’s scouring news sites for anything that might even tangentially relate to him, what she’s seen him accomplish. So far all she’s gathered is that another person – a guy, younger than her by a couple of years, going to school relatively close by – has gone missing. And she’s got _nothing_.

Spidey’s tried talking her into getting the Avengers involved, and she’s not exactly opposed to the idea, but. When do you make that call? When is a problem so disastrous that it needs the Avengers to do their avenging?

Also, what is she supposed to do? Text Thor that she’s got a situation in Hell’s Kitchen? Does he fancy doing a fly-by and lending a mighty, mighty hand? God, she feels like she’s gonna break out into hives just thinking about it. Contacting _Thor_, a literal alien god, with her troubles. She barely survived meeting him the first time, she’s not sure she’ll be able to pack in all the anxiety and slip into Blackout Mode again just to get through a conversation with him.

And _oh_, he cannot, under any circumstances, meet Matt.

She’ll actually die if that happens, because Thor will have some otherworldly sense and know Matt’s the guy she’s hopelessly gone on and he’ll say _something _princely and vaguely inappropriate and she’ll just up and die from heart failure. Probably from shocking herself, though the jury’s out on whether or not it’ll be purposeful.

“—chaela? Michaela?”

Michaela blinks, her thoughts suddenly coming to a standstill as it registers that Matt is leaning over her, an arm braced against the back of the couch, his free hand wrapped lightly around the wrist she’s unconsciously drawn close to her chest. Her panicked reflection stares back at from his glasses, tinted red and distorted just enough that she absently makes a face at it, startled.

“You with me?” Matt asks, tightening his grip for a moment until she heaves out a slow breath and nods her head. “Can you take a few deep breaths for me? Yeah, just like that, you’re doing good, Michaela...”

It takes a couple minutes, but the combination of Matt’s presence and her own coping techniques has her breathing easier, enough that she pushes herself upright, careful not to dislodge Matt’s hand but silently asking him for some space all the same. He gives it to her easily, dropping down on the couch beside her but deliberately not touching her anywhere besides her wrist. She squeezes her eyes shut, brings her other hand to her cover her mouth. Ugh. She doesn’t think superheroes should be getting this many panic attacks, at least not weekly. Once a month, maybe, when the stress of the job creeps up on you while you’re like, boiling water for pasta or something. Inserting itself into some mundane task and jacking up your heart rate, clouding your thoughts with _what ifs _and _should have beens_.

Not her, though. _Noooo _Michaela has the good fortune to nearly suffocate herself from hyperventilating _at least _twice a week these days. Therapy, that’s what she needs. If only she could afford a fucking therapist.

“…right,” she says eventually, letting the weight of her body sink into the couch, the tension dissipating from her muscles and leaving her sluggish and heavy. Matt’s hand on her wrist is more or less holding up her arm at this point, and isn’t _that _sexy of her? “That’s a thing you keep having to deal with. I’d apologize but…” She manages to shrug her uncooperative shoulders, though the motion is so minute she’s not sure Matt even picks up on it. “It’s gonna happen again.”

“No need to apologize regardless,” he says, quirking the corner of his mouth up. He’s rubbing gentle at her pulse point with his thumb and she would tell him to stop, but frankly she doesn’t have the energy to deny herself such a small comfort. “I’m not what you’d call a stranger to anxiety. I’ve had my fair share of attacks, especially when I was younger. After” – he tips his head, lets his glasses slide down his nose a little, and she blinks – “well, after this happened, I had a lot of problems with sensory overload. Took years for me to learn to filter things out, to find a middle ground I could work with.”

“Matt… everything I learn about you makes me want to smother you in a blanket.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

The mental image of Matt (decked out as Daredevil) rolled into a burrito blanket is so wild and nonsensical that Michaela has to laugh, and it’s genuine, far from the hysterical outbursts she’s been known to let out at times like this. It’s a good thing, it means the panic from before is fading from her system, and it has the bonus of getting Matt to smile at her again. Crisis averted, no one’s crying. It’s a definite win for the vigilante buddy club.

“In all seriousness,” Matt says, the sofa not creaking even a little as he shifts, lifting a leg onto the cushion and draping his arm over the top of the backrest. “I know what you’re going through, Michaela. You feel helpless and frustrated and _angry_ that you’re not doing more, that you can’t do more when this guy is operating right under your nose.”

She side-eyes him, breathing slowly, half to focus herself and half because he’s nailed her so completely she can’t even pretend he isn’t right about what he’s saying. He’d know she’s lying anyway, so. Waste of effort, and effort is not a thing she has in spades at the moment. Better to fill the reserves while she has a chance to rest and refute something else down the line.

“You’re doing what you can with what you have,” Matt goes on, undeterred by her silence. “I’m not going to tell you not to stress yourself out over it, because I’d be an idiot if I said anything like that, but. Well. You’ve got people on your side, Michaela. And we’ll find this guy. We’ll stop him. You have my word, alright?”

She nods slightly, turning to bury her face in the backrest, counting her breaths and zeroing in on the warmth of Matt’s hand on her skin. Matt doesn’t push for a response from her, just sits with her in the quiet of his apartment. He doesn’t let go of her and she doesn’t move to shake him off.

He has to know about her feelings, right? There’s no way he _doesn’t know_, what with the nifty ability to monitor heartbeats and whatever else his super senses pick up on. She’s… not as horrified by that thought as she might have been, months ago when they first met. Matt knows – it’s not the end of the world. That he probably doesn’t feel the same way… it stings a little, sure, but she values his friendship too much to distance herself from him. She’d rather let her feelings gradually run their course and eventually fade, because the last thing she wants to do is make Matt uncomfortable. He knows how she feels and she doubts he can really help that, being attuned to her while they’re out together as he is. But she doesn’t need to, god forbid, _make a move _on him, or something equally as mortifying.

Michaela watches Matt for a moment. He’s got his gaze turned towards the window, the sunlight slanting across his face and refracting off his glasses. He doesn’t look unfocused, his mouth soft and shapeless but not slack, his brows drawn together slightly. She smiles, unbidden, and presses her face a little more firmly into the couch.

She’s not even complaining, really. She’s got a great friend and nice view. Could be much worse for her.

Well, that’s what she’s thinking until Matt stiffens suddenly, releasing her wrist to twist around in his seat, angling himself towards the door. She’s on alert just as fast, shaking off the lethargy and crawling up behind him, peeking out over his head as though she’s going to see what set him off.

“I’m guessing you heard something?” she whispers, half hoping it’s just a gaggle of alley cats making a ruckus outside. Not that she thinks he’d mistake that for a threat, but well, a girl can fantasize, right?

He pauses, raising a brow, before he says, “Yeah… and it’s a problem, but not the kind you’re thinking of.”

“What? The hell does that mean?”

“It means,” Matt says on a sigh, leveraging himself up from the couch, “that we’re about to have company.”

Company? Michaela stares at the wall that hides the door from her view, uncomprehending. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Matt shrug on a sweater (his apartment does have something of a draft, which is pretty much its only flaw that she’s seen so far) and grab his cane from where it rests against the kitchen counter. She wants to get a clear answer out of him about what she should expect, but she’s beaten to the proverbial punch by a knock on the door.

Okay. Bad guys don’t knock, in her experience. She mentally lowers the threat rating, which hadn’t gone down even with Matt’s assurance that it’s nothing terrible.

“I’m sorry in advance,” he says, which – _why? _And then he’s rounding the corner and she hears him unlocking and opening the door, and—

“Matt! What the hell? I’ve been trying to call you for hours, man, you can’t just go radio silent like that, you know—”

“I’m sorry, Foggy, really, I had my phone turned off. Wasn’t thinking.”

“Turned off?” a woman asks, clearly perplexed. And yeah, Michaela would be to, considering; Daredevil doesn’t turn off his hero burner phone, so it stands to reason that Matt Murdock wouldn’t, either. His friends would want to be able to get in touch with him at all times. “That’s not like you, Matt. Is everything okay with you?”

Uh, Michaela shouldn’t be here for this. Probably. That’s Foggy and… Karen? Definitely Karen. Matt doesn’t talk about many people besides those two, and if they showed up together it’s even more likely that Karen tagged along with Foggy. And Michaela’s met Foggy a handful of times in the shop (she saw him pretty recently, actually, once she was recovered enough to start working again), but she doesn’t _know _him. She knows Karen even less, only from stories passed on by Matt and Foggy and through Foggy’s dodgy attempt to describe her one time when Michaela got curious and couldn’t resist.

This was back when she was convinced Matt and Karen were a _thing _and it’s not her proudest moment, okay? She has regrets. A lot of regrets. _So many _regrets.

“I appreciate you guys checking in, but there’s nothing for you to worry about,” Matt’s saying, and Michaela recognizes that tone, _oh_, that’s a bad choice on his part. He’s an excellent liar when he wants to be but _that tone _is one hundred percent bullshit, and Foggy’s his _best friend. _

“I call bullshit.”

Bingo. Damn, Matt, what a rookie mistake. She can’t help snickering to herself, clapping both hands over her mouth so as not to draw attention, but she must not be quick enough with it because the conversation by the door shudders to a halt at her interruption. She swears she hears Matt sigh, but it’s lost in the commotion of Foggy and Karen bustling past him into the main room, both of them wide-eyed and looking somewhat shell-shocked.

Michaela waves like a dork. “Hey, Foggy. Uh, it’s Karen, right? Foggy’s description of you didn’t do you justice, but he got the pretty blonde part down pat, at least.”

Karen lifts both brows and looks sidelong at Foggy, who studiously ignores her eyes on him and instead gapes at Michaela, as though her being in Matt’s apartment (dressed as slovenly as she is) does not compute for him. And, well. Foggy only knows her as the awkward cashier at _Cody’s _who probably stares a little too long at Matt when they come in together; that doesn’t translate into her having some sort of _relationship _with Matt, one that he hasn’t told his best friend about.

Ooh. Poor Matt. Foggy’s gonna be pissed at him for this… betrayal, for lack of a better word.

“That’s me,” Karen says at last, breaking the collective (and unpleasant) silence just as Matt is coming back from re-locking the door. “Karen Page, I used to work with Matt and Foggy at their firm.”

Michaela blinks. “Used to?” She glances at Matt, which. _Stupid_, he’s _blind_, he’s not supposed to know when she’s looking at him. He’s been at this a long time, though, so he doesn’t show any indication that he’s aware of her gaze, just tilts his head in Karen’s general direction, leaning back against the wall, his cane held loosely in both hands.

Karen smiles as she steps forward, shaking Michaela’s hand in short order before she lowers herself down onto the armchair Matt had been sort of using earlier. “Uh-huh. I write for the Bulletin, now, though I still help them gather information for their cases when they need it.”

“You’re a journalist?” Michaela has to remind herself not to cringe; not all journalists are dicks, she knows that, objectively. She’s just had a shitty first-hand experience with them so far. Not to mention what Spidey goes through all the time. But then something clicks for her. “Oh, wait. Karen _Page_? You wrote that piece about heroes, right? I loved that! I sent it to my friend in Queens and—”

Well, she’s not going to come out and say that she and Spidey gushed about the damn thing, overwhelmed by the thought that someone out there in the journalistic community actually approved of what they were doing, rather than putting out piece after piece merely belittling the work vigilantes have done. And, okay, it wasn’t _about _vigilantes, necessarily; Karen made it a point to say that everyone has the capacity to be a hero, whether or not they possesses amazing powers. But it felt like validation when Michaela read it and she is sorely lacking in that department, so she took Karen Paige’s words to heart, took the comfort she could, even from a stranger.

She kind of wants to whistle, though, like they do on TV all the time. _Small world, huh? _

Karen’s looking pleased with herself, if a little embarrassed, her cheeks tinged red and her smile bitten back. She shakes her head, looks at Michaela with the kindest eyes she’s ever seen. Fuck, no wonder all Foggy got out about her was that she’s _pretty _and blonde. He could’ve mentioned the eyes, though, Jesus, Michaela hates being blindsided by pretty people. It’s like Matt all over again.

“Yeah, that was also me,” Karen says, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “I got a good response from that piece, I’m proud of it, so I’m happy to hear it resonated with you and your friend.”

Michaela laughs, the sound almost startled out of her. Oh, if only Karen knew just how _much _it resonated with her and Spidey. She waves a hand at Karen, trying to let her know she’s not laughing _at her_, which she seems to understand, and cranes her neck to mock-glare at Matt. So what if he’s not supposed to be able to see it? He’ll get the gist from her voice. “Matty, what the fuck? You know I’ve got that article printed out and hanging on my fridge!”

“It’s not like he can see it,” Foggy butts in, teasing. And isn’t _that_ interesting? That Matt’s disability is something he’s comfortable with to the point where friendly banter doesn’t faze him. She’s not surprised, Matt’s thick-skinned and he’s had years to come to terms with his blindness, and it’s not really a _hinderance _at this point, but. It says something about his friendship with Foggy, and she has to bite back a smile of her own thinking about it, the ease with which these two operate around each other.

“That’s not an excuse! I told him I put it up there!”

“You did,” Matt agrees, smirking as he makes use of the cane to cross back over to the couch and take his seat beside her again. “I’m sorry, I should have introduced you two sooner. Karen, this is Michaela King. Foggy and I have probably mentioned her once or twice. Michaela, Karen Paige, journalist extraordinaire.”

“Matt,” she says, half a whine, half a laugh. “That’s going a little too far, just say I’m a journalist.”

“Karen, come on,” Foggy says, finally shaking off the last of his surprise and perching himself on the arm of Karen’s chair. “They love you at the Bulletin. You’re like, their best journalist in _years_. Give yourself some credit!”

Karen rolls her eyes and swats at Foggy’s arm. “We’re not here to talk about me. We’re… Well, we came to see how Matt was doing, but I don’t think we were worrying for the right reasons.” Her smile turns sly as she looks back at Michaela, who swallows reflexively, her hands clenching around the fabric of her sweatshirt’s hem. “How long have you two…?”

“Uh,” is Michaela’s oh-so elegant response. “We’re, ya know, _not_—”

“You don’t have to pretend with us, Michaela,” Foggy says, all smiles, and Michaela’s heart drops right into her stomach. Oh, _god_, she knows she just got through telling herself she’s fine with Matt knowing she likes him, but that doesn’t mean she wants to hear it laid out by a third party. “This guy has all the luck with women, I swear.”

“Foggy, you have a girlfriend. From what you’ve told me, a beautiful one at that. I’m not sure what point you’re trying to make here.”

“No point! Just congratulating the happy couple—”

“Except we’re not a couple?”

Michaela’s voice comes out small and withered, but it gets their attention, the three of them (Matt included) swiveling their heads to look at her. She swallows again, fingers cinching tighter around her hoodie. “Sorry to disappoint,” she says with a lopsided smile, shrugging. “But Matt and I are friends, that’s all. I’m, uh.” _Fuck_. “You know. Here on friendly business only.” Fuck if she knows what _friendly business _entails, but it’s all her frantic brain can spit out at the moment.

Karen’s expression softens, and it occurs to Michaela that Matt’s not the only who’d be able to see right through her, metaphorically or otherwise. Foggy, however, just blinks at her, switching his gaze between her and Matt in confusion.

“Really?” Foggy asks, looking directly at Matt. Matt isn’t _looking _at him, his head turned enough that his glasses are pointing somewhere in the vicinity of Karen, but the tight lines around his mouth are evidence that he’s very much aware that Foggy’s speaking to him. “I’m not trying to push here,” Foggy adds with a glance at Michaela, who smiles sheepishly on impulse, “but, uh. You know what, Matt, come with me for a sec.”

And with that, Foggy crosses the room and snags Matt by the elbow, leading him into Matt’s bedroom and sliding the door shut behind them.

If Michaela strains her ears she can just make out the hushed cadence of their voices, but she doesn’t exactly want to hear what’s being said, so she lets herself drift back from that heightened awareness and instead looks at Karen, who’s rolling her eyes again and crossing her legs as she leans back in her seat. She offers Michaela a sympathetic expression.

“They’ve been friends a long time,” she says, and Michaela nods. She doesn’t know the whole story there, but she knows they’ve known each other at least since they started law school together. “Foggy can get… kind of bull-headed if he thinks Matt’s being an idiot about something. It happens more often than you might think,” she adds, her teeth flashing in a warm, fond smile.

Michaela is not equipped to hold up against such an onslaught, and she slumps back in her own seat, releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I’m not used to people calling me out on my bullshit like that,” she admits, because it’s true. Emmett isn’t going to do it, and she isn’t all that close with anyone from her college classes, all of them much younger than her and therefore not really people she wants to get to know on a more personal level. Spidey and Matt aren’t super indulgent with her or anything, but, well. They all give each other breaks because of the whole _superhero _thing, so she doesn’t think she gets chided as much as she probably should. “Not that I think Matt has bullshit to be called out on right now, but.”

“Well, no one’s going to convince Foggy of that, so we might as well let them talk things out for a while.” She smiles again. “How about we get to know each other? Foggy’s mentioned you work at _Cody’s_?”

Michaela returns the smile as best she can, trying to ignore her rapid pulse beating in her ears, striking a discordant rhythm with the rushing of her blood. Why she’s so fucking nervous, she doesn’t know. This is friends teasing each other about crushes, and in this case it’s about a crush that doesn’t exist. She shouldn’t rile herself up over the consequences of Foggy’s chat with Matt, but.

Ugh. She hates her brain so fucking much.

“Yeah, I work there, and I’m kinda also working a side job as an amateur graphic designer. I’ve been helping people design websites since the summer started and I finished with classes for the semester.”

“Where are you going to school?”

The conversation is stilted, mostly on Michaela’s end, but Karen’s polite questions at least manage to distract her from the fact that twenty minutes have passed without either Matt or Foggy leaving the room. _Twenty minutes_. What the fuck. What could they possibly be talking about that it takes them _twenty minutes _to hash things out?

“So, uh.” Michaela grimaces, then pastes a passable smile onto her face as she looks up at Karen. “You seeing anyone right now? I kinda thought you and Matt…”

She blinks, probably in shock because that question _definitely _came out of left field and Michaela is a full-blown idiot all on her own. Fuck. Why is she like this, why can’t she keep her mouth shut? This is another Thor situation except she can’t just have cool, smooth Blackout hijack her brain and take control of the conversation. Karen doesn’t need to see her do a one-eighty with her personality, not when her first impression of Michaela can’t be that favorable already.

“Oh, wow,” Karen says, and she’s… laughing? She covers her mouth with her hand, but she’s laughing alright, her shoulders shaking with it, even. Michaela is just a _little_ dumbfounded. “We tried, me and Matt, but, uh, no. Turns out we’re not really each other’s type.”

“And you’re still friends?”

“Of course,” Karen says, grinning. “Matt’s hard not to like, and we didn’t end things on bad terms. We just… realized we didn’t fit quite right.”

Huh. Michaela can’t say she’s ever parted amicably with any of her partners over the years, but then again, she’s never had _we didn’t fit quite right _as a reason for breaking up. That time in high school might’ve qualified, but… hm. No, that guy was just a douche who didn’t want to come across _as _a douche. Thinking back on it, she really hasn’t been lucky in the romance department, has she?

Stands to reason that’s not going to change any time soon.

“That’s, uh.” Michaela is struggling. Just. There’s no other word for it. Everything about this situation is a struggle. “I’m glad you two didn’t, ya know, end up hating each other.”

_Alright, Thor, now would be a really good time to try some smiting_.

But Karen just laughs again. “We had a rough patch but that… wasn’t strictly related to our relationship,” she says, her pleasant expression cracking slightly, mouth flickering between a smile and a frown. She settles on the smile, though. “Like I said, Matt’s hard not to like.”

“Yeah, that I can agree with.” Michaela’s liked the guy since he came into _Cody’s_, despite how stubborn he was about his change. “He’s a good guy, through and through.”

At that, Karen’s smile widens. “He is.” She pauses, cups her hand over her mouth for a moment, then adds, soft, “You know, I think you’d be good for him.”

And they’re back to this incomprehensible conversation. “I’m sorry?” Shit, that’s kind of rude; Michaela back-peddles instinctively. “I mean, uh, you don’t really know me?” That is, by far, the least understandable thing about this – Karen literally just met her. She’s seen Michaela interact with Matt for a grand total of five minutes.

“Technically true,” Karen concedes, still smiling. “But I’ve seen how Matt’s changed over the last few months. That wasn’t me or Foggy, and I’ve been wondering who else he’s been spending his time with. If that was you…” She trails off but she doesn’t need to finish. Or, Michaela would _like _her to finish, but that’s only because she wants it said out loud, so there’s no room for misinterpretation.

“Right,” she says, for lack of anything more eloquent. “Okay, sure… thank you?”

Karen might have something to say that (what, Michaela doesn’t know, she’s not giving much to warrant a response) but she’s cut off by the door to Matt’s bedroom opening. Foggy emerges first, his suit rumpled in a way that suggests he was gesturing quite a lot, and then Matt, with an expression Michaela finds difficult to read. Michaela makes the executive decision not to question anything else today – if Matt and Foggy fought, that’s their business, and hell if she’s going to pry.

(Or, just as likely, she’s a coward who _really _doesn’t want to bring things to a head with Matt after her heart-to-heart with Karen, but that thought isn’t leaving her head, so oh fucking well)

She does, however, shoot Foggy a curious look. He shrugs at her, then flops down onto the arm of Karen’s chair again, loudly declaring that he’s ordering pizza and anyone who asks for pineapples is getting tossed out.

Matt – politely – reminds Foggy that this isn’t his apartment, to which Foggy – _maturely _– lobs a pillow at him. Matt doesn’t dodge, so it smacks him clear across the face, and Michaela can’t help it, okay, she’s only (sort of) human: she fucking _howls _with laughter, doubling over in her seat when she catches sight of the deliberately neutral expression Matt’s etched across his features.

“Well,” Matt says, ignoring Michaela completely as he bends down to retrieve the pillow, fumbling for it for a moment (and doing one hell of an acting job, Michaela sees awards in his future) before he rights himself, the pillow tucked under one arm. “Sounds like Foggy’s just volunteered to pay for dinner.”

“Thanks, Foggy,” Karen chirps, unabashedly delighted.

“Oh, no,” Foggy says, lunging from the chair again and grabbing for the pillow. Matt, laughing to himself, holds his cane out as a barrier, which Foggy grumbles over but doesn’t cross. “Oh, no, what? I didn’t agree to that! There was no verbal agreement! No verbal agreement, no contract, Murdock!”

“Call it a punitive punishment for your crimes, then.”

“_Crimes_? I threw a pillow—”

“At a blind man,” Karen cuts in, but she’s laughing almost as hard as Michaela, so the words are a breathy mess that Michaela only barely understands. Matt hears, though, judging by the smirk on his face.

“That’s assault,” he says pointedly.

Foggy does pay for the pizza, in the end, though Michaela does offer to pay for her share. She’s not sure what look Matt gives Foggy to have him turn her down, but she makes sure to glare at him when the others aren’t looking, and he just grins at her, boyish and charming and every bit the Matt Murdock she met at _Cody’s _half a year ago. It’s… sweet, to see him like this, with mirth curling at the corners of his mouth, laughing at the banter between him and his friends.

Michaela’s never needed a reason to try and humanize Daredevil (he’s never been anything but achingly human to her), but seeing Matt Murdock with his guard truly down and a smile curling around every word he speaks… she thinks it’s rare, this moment, and that she’s lucky to be a part of it, however small.


	15. chapter twelve | it had to happen sometime (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look, the wizard wasn't gonna stay in the background forever, okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just... would not cooperate with me. I'm splitting it into two parts just because I got sick of writing this bit. Hopefully the next chapter turns out better, if only for the sake of my sanity.

Turns out, Michaela doesn’t have to even go looking for the wizard. Which, hey, that’s great, right? No late-night internet trawling required (consequently, it means she doesn’t have to stumble onto what Spidey has deemed the _dark web_ – the _irony, _Christ -- or one of a dozen porn sites that people like to link to for shits and giggles).

Spoiler alert: This is not a fortuitous occasion for her.

It starts out simple enough – Michaela’s practically crawling out of her skin with the need to do _something_ and working two jobs isn’t giving her many chances to make use of the excess electricity zipping around in her system. So she’s back to lounging out on her balcony, legs hanging down from between slats of the railing, cradling the police scanner from her not-cousin and trying _not _to wish for something interesting to happen in her neighborhood.

And then something interesting happens.

Michaela stows the scanner and slips down from her apartment, clinging to the shadows as she makes her way to the address the 911 call was made from. It’s not that far of a walk for her; she knows the area pretty well after all the nights she’s spent cutting through alleyways and trailing after Daredevil, which means she’s got a good handle on the best shortcuts in Hell’s Kitchen. Better than the police, anyway, though to be fair they’ve kind of got to stick to the main roads. Can’t have cops hopping the curbs just to shave a few seconds off their response time.

Still, she makes it there only a few minutes after the police, slinking her way up an adjacent fire escape so that she doesn’t get caught in the red and blue flashes of light spinning out from the street. She tracks the officers to the fourth floor of the complex only because the people above and below that floor are hanging out their windows, searching for the disturbance and coming up empty.

Michaela crouches on the fire escape, peering through the open window across from her position. Men and women in uniform pass by her sightlines every so often, doubling back and thoroughly searching the room Michaela has access to after a few minutes; it’s the bedroom, or one of them at least, judging by the scarce décor Michaela can make out. The edge of a bedspread; a cluttered nightstand stacked with books and picture frames alike; a cracked door that presumably leads into a closet, or an ensuite bathroom. Frowning under her mask, Michaela leverages herself upright and leans out over the railing, straining to catch even a snippet of conversation between the officers.

Should she call Matt? His hearing would be such an asset right now, she’d actually have an idea of what the fuck is happening in there. Michaela skipped out on the chatter after she heard that there was a possible break-in at this address, that a woman called in a panic, desperate for someone to come out _right this second _because a man she didn’t know was in her house. Shit, why didn’t she bring the scanner with her?

Caught up in her thoughts as she is, Michaela nearly misses the movement inside the apartment. Abnormal movement. Her eyes catch on an officer backing out of the bedroom, calling out to the others as he goes. He doesn’t close the door as it hadn’t been closed to begin with, so Michaela watches as the three officers who responded to the call all file out through the front door. She blinks.

_That’s it? _

They’re on street-level within minutes. One of the officers, a woman, sticks around to pacify the curious bystanders and residents of the complex, but the men get into their squad car and drive off without even a backwards glance at the building. Once she’s satisfied the nosy neighbors, the woman follows suit.

Seriously, _that’s it_?

The cool, rust-pitted metal of the railing bites into Michaela’s exposed fingers as her grip on the iron flexes, her shoulders still hitched up around her ears. She’s not as much of a stranger to standard police procedure as she was when she started – she learned the basic ins and outs of it from Daredevil originally, and then Matt-the-lawyer felt comfortable delving into the nitty-gritty aspects of it with her later. (Prior to that her working knowledge of police procedure came from crime dramas, so. Matt was doing the city a real service and he didn’t even realize) But no matter how she looks at it, something’s off here.

Releasing the railing, Michaela steps back, her gaze flitting between the still-open windows of the other residents. Most of them have ducked back inside and seem wholly unconcerned about the possibility of a crime having been committed a floor away from them, but a few linger, casting uneasy glances at the woman’s apartment and the ground, where nearly all the gawking onlookers have dispersed. It might be in her best interest to grab the attention of someone who hasn’t dismissed the whole thing yet, get their perspective on what happened, but – shit, she’s not that confident that she won’t get the police called on _her_.

People know Blackout now, at least in Hell’s Kitchen. There was a brief uptick in interest in her superhero persona following that Instagram post by Thor, but aside from when the Asgardian occasionally makes a reference to his long-lost ‘daughter’ (and she will never be able to look him in the eye again, it’s over, her dreams are dashed), the gossip rags don’t give two shits about her. The Bulletin covers her from time to time, though mostly when she and Daredevil are spotted together. It’s enough, though, that she’s becoming something of a household name. She’d wager it’s a fifty-fifty shot with a random individual – they _might _recognize her, and therefore want to throw her a bone, but they _also _might freak the fuck out at this masked asshole coming up to them out of the blue and interrogating them.

It’s not a risk she’s willing to take right now.

Michaela tugs sharply at her braid, wincing at the pull on her scalp, letting it snap her from her spiraling thoughts. Nothing to be done for it. Maybe it was a prank call, maybe the police couldn’t find any evidence of a break-in, or any signs of a struggle. Maybe there’s some sort of protocol she’s not privy to that they’re adhering to by _not _conducting a lengthy investigation. It’s not like she’s an expert, even with Matt’s coaching. She didn’t come here with high expectations, anyway – break-ins aren’t exactly her forte, not unless the would-be robber is still on the scene. Which they clearly aren’t in this case.

Michaela plucks out her phone, checking the time as she carefully descends from the fire escape. She hasn’t quite reached Matt and Spidey’s levels of stealth, and she’s not inclined to alert the neighborhood to her presence by slipping and tumbling head-first down the stairs. Given that it’s nearing midnight, she’s pretty sure making a fuck-ton of noise at the scene of a faux-crime would get the police called back here in a heartbeat, and god knows Michaela doesn’t need to be the first vigilante in New York to get their identity revealed by getting arrested.

(If she were into gambling… she’d put her money on Spidey, honestly; kid gets in over his head entirely too often for her liking)

There’s no need to call Matt, at least, though she might’ve just been looking for the excuse. They haven’t seen one another much since she spent the day at his apartment and finally had some quality time with Foggy and Karen – he’s been busy with a case, she’s been busting her ass so she doesn’t get evicted for not paying rent on time. Their schedules just haven’t aligned at all, and it’s frustrating even if she’s not expecting anything to come of them hanging out, regardless of what Karen said to her.

She did get to visit Spider-Man, though, when he texted that he needed help with a “secret project.” Said project turned out to be a new and improved batch of webbing that he thought might conduct her electricity, because – in his own words – he wanted “a super special dual attack” for the two of them, for when they get to have each other’s backs.

It's safe to say her heart grew three sizes that day.

And also, that the two of them nearly started at least three fires, one of which would probably have resulted in Spidey’s sweats going up in flames.

Michaela was mortified; Spidey, having recorded the whole thing, mumbled to himself that _this was going to get so many hits _on his blog.

Michaela is often reminded why she doesn’t get along with children when she’s with Spider-Man, but then again, she’s often reminded why she doesn’t get along with most people in general when she’s with anyone else, so. She’ll take the trade-off.

This late, Michaela’s almost alone out here. The wind’s picked up some, shuffling trash along the sidewalks in lieu of the more traditional tumbleweeds and whistling in her ears, drowning out the sound of her own footsteps. She’s wary of the silence, too used to the ugly city sounds that usually break up the night, but maybe that’s a more recent development. She has trouble differentiating between pre- and post-vigilante life, honestly, everything’s a blur to her. Paranoia might be in her blood, but it’s gotten so much fucking worse now that she actively feels everything is against her – at least she thinks that’s the case.

Mental health’s a bitch sometimes.

Although sometimes that paranoia comes in handy.

Case in point: She’s pretty sure someone’s watching her. The prickling at the back of her neck points to someone following her, as well, which is. Not ideal. Obviously, she’s _not _totally alone, it’s Hell’s Kitchen, and more than that it’s New York – the city that never sleeps, to the point where everyone’s probably gotten their insomniac card’s punched to completion. What they win from that, she doesn’t know; for her it’s generally a shitty attitude and black half-moons under her eyes to match. Point is, though, she knows what it feels like when it’s just everyone else around her existing, their eyes sliding past her just because she happens to be in their line of sight. This is _staring_, deliberate and cutting and making her skin scrawl with tension.

She’s never had a stalker before – or whatever this really amounts to. But she’s in Blackout Mode right now, and that means acting with confidence she doesn’t really feel, so before she can talk herself out of it, Michaela turns around abruptly, electricity shrieking around her hands—

And it’s… some guy.

Not very tall, only a few inches taller than her; washed-out blond hair, freckles dotting the bridge of his nose and tops of his cheeks. The only notable thing about him is neon-blue leather jacket he’s wearing and the smudges of makeup around his eyes and lips, maybe his, maybe his date’s. Hook-up’s. Someone else’s. Fuck, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s hovering anxiously about three feet away from her, one foot stilled midair, hands half out of his pockets.

Michaela tilts her chin up, lifts her brows even knowing he won’t see them behind the goggles. “You’ve got about five seconds to back the fuck away before I take a stab at some free-hand defibrillation.”

He does step back, but it’s more of a stumble than anything else, tripping over the heel of one foot in his haste to get both feet on the ground. Wide-eyed, he keeps right on staring at her, mouth gaping open. He’s shaking, she realizes, a fine tremble that cascades down from his shoulders. He blinks, hard, takes a steadying breath.

“I need your help,” he says, too quick, the words crashing into one another on the way out. He’s breathless, sweating, and she’d say he’s been running but she’s had more than her fair share of panic attacks, and she can’t dismiss the possibility that he’s in the middle of one right now.

Hero instincts flaring to life, she lifts her hands, placating, and says, “Okay, I take back the threatening comment.”

He twitches, a little, hands jerking in his pockets. “You are Blackout, right? Fuck, please be Blackout, I’m—”

“That’s me,” she says, soft, careful, taking the slightest of steps to bridge the gap between them. She keeps her hands up and level with her shoulders almost, desperate to appear as non-threatening as possible. God, she should have rethought the Winter Soldier shit, it’s a wonder people don’t just run from her screaming all the time. “Tell me what’s going on and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“I…” He licks his lips, eyes darting down and away before they jump back to her face. “Someone kidnapped me.”

What.

“What,” she says, haltingly, unsure if she’s heard right.

“I know how it sounds, okay, it sounds crazy, it sounds like _I’m _crazy, but I—you have to fucking believe me, I’m not crazy. I thought I was for _months _but that’s not—” Another deep breath, shaky on the exhale. “That’s not why I’m… the way I am. And this” – he presses an emphatic hand to his chest, slapping twice – “this isn’t me, this isn’t my body. I’m borrowing it, because someone _kidnapped my actual body_.”

There’s a moment of disconnect, where Michaela just looks blankly back at the guy while he silently wills her to understand the words leaving his mouth. Nothing he says… makes any fucking sense. Someone hijacked someone else’s body? Like a mind-swap? Does that mean this guy – whoever he is – has his mind in a foreign body? Or are they… sharing headspace, so to speak?

And then she remembers that a weird unidentifiable substance hit her directly in the face a little over half a year ago and made her into the human equivalent of a sparkplug. Unfortunately for her, literally anything is possible.

“What’s your name?” Michaela asks, instead of the thousand or so other questions making laps around her skull.

The guy – or… the person in front of her draws back, shoulders hitching, squinting. “I’m telling you I’m not—”

“Not that,” Michaela interrupts, “not the,” she flaps a hand at him – them – trying to indicate the body and not the mind its harboring, “not the _host _or. I don’t know what you call the other person in this. Your probably-unwilling sling partner. I’m asking what _your _name is.”

“Oh,” they say, instantly docile again, the fight going right out of them. “Grace. Grace Lee. So you—”

“Let’s just assume that I’m on board with whatever you’re saying, alright? You got kidnapped, so I’m guessing we’ve got a deadline here. What can you tell me about the person who took you?”

Turns out Grace doesn’t have too many details to relay to Michaela. She’d gotten home late from work, exhausted, barely blinking the sleep from her eyes as she went through the motions of throwing something together for dinner and winding down from an excruciatingly boring day at the office. She hadn’t noticed anything strange in her apartment, nothing that got the ol’ alarm bells ringing in her head, but then one moment she was vegetating on the couch, mindlessly watching reruns of some sitcom, and the next she couldn’t move. Couldn’t get up, couldn’t turn over, couldn’t even twitch a finger.

Grace says she caught sight of someone in a hood (“Green,” she adds, adamant, “a really ugly shade of green.” “Terrible taste in fashion _is _a common trend among criminals,” Michaela replies sagely, vehemently ignoring the blatant once-over Grace gives Michaela’s own super threads) before she…

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy again,” Grace says, wringing her hands – or, not _her_ hands, the guy’s hands, but. Fuck. Michaela doesn’t know if the distinction matters at this point.

“Try me,” Michaela says, because she firmly believes that the universe has doled out its top-tier bullshit for the day and that nothing can surprise her anymore.

“I… I couldn’t move, right? But I started… fuck me, I can’t think of any better way to say it than that I started floating.”

Michaela was right. Not shocking in the slightest. “I mean… This might as well happen. Adult life is already so goddamn weird… So you’re floating. What next?”

“I panicked. I don’t… I’ve gotten better at not accidentally ejecting myself from my body, which kind of… happened a lot in the beginning. But with this, I freaked the fuck out and sent my consciousness into the closest body.” She taps the guy’s chest again, frowning. “He’s not even going to remember me being here, the poor guy. He’s gonna wake up in a random place and have no fucking clue how he got there.”

“In all fairness, this is an emergency situation.” Michaela reaches out, retracts her hand, then decides _fuck it _and moves to pat Grace’s borrowed shoulder. Not much of a comfort, but that’s still a skill she’s leveling up at this juncture. “If he was aware of it, I’m sure he’d be cool with you taking the reins for a while.”

“Oh shit!” Grace hisses, slapping both hands to her cheeks, eyes wide and manic again. “Shit, shit, we have to hurry, the farther away my real body gets from this one, the less control I have. Eventually I just… snap back to my body.”

Well, that’s. Not great.

Michaela doesn’t know the rules of this – Grace’s powers are unlike anything she’s ever heard of, though she’s guessing (using her extensive knowledge of nerd-dom) that it’s a form of telepathy. Or telekinesis. Whichever better applies here. She has a hunch, but beyond that…

“Can you, uh, feel yourself?”

Grace twitches again, her face screwed up in the beginnings of an emotion that looks a lot like _disgust_.

“Fuck, not like—I mean, can you feel when you’re close to your body? Because, honestly, I’m not sure how we’re gonna find you otherwise. Whoever took you clearly has powers of their own, and they could be anywhere by now.”

“Oh. Oh, shit, yes, yes! Sort of.” Grace winces at Michaela’s unsubtle grimace (clear even through the mask). “I… shit, fuck, it’s… it’s like a rubber band, a little, you know? There’s this… tension in me, when I’m too far away from my body. If I close the distance, the tension eases up.”

“Okay, okay, let’s work with that. How much tension are you feeling right now?”

“A lot,” Grace says, and Michaela notes that the sweating from earlier has gotten visibly worse, beading on Grace’s forehead and darkening the neckline of the guy’s white shirt.

Not great times two.

“That’s a starting point!” Michaela declares with all the cheer she can muster, taking hold of Grace’s arm and tugging her in what is definitely _not _a random direction. Ha, that’s funny, like Michaela’s plan would actually be to drag Grace in every possible direction until she starts feeling less tension. She would _never_ be so irresponsible as to hinge the safety of a civilian-slash-victim on something as unreliable as chance. She’s better than that, smarter. Cooler.

…this whole honesty thing isn’t really working out for anyone, huh.

But! None of that fucking matters because it _works_!

Michaela’s not willing to admit how lucky she gets with this one, but she is willing to say that it’s not all that long until their (totally aimless) wandering brings them to a back alley sitting pretty between two abandoned buildings. Warehouses, by the looks of them, left to fester and rot and generally just attract all manner of vermin (some of them of the human variety, though Michaela’s not judging, really). The alley’s overrun with trash, spilling out from dented garbage cans and piled up against the walls of the adjacent buildings. The stench would probably be enough to kill one of them if Grace and Michaela weren’t keyed up with adrenaline.

Michaela can’t hear anything from either of the warehouses and she looks between them, searching for a sign of life anywhere. Grace only knows the general area of her body, but she’s at least confident it’s one of the warehouses. Michaela can tell she’s feeling better even without asking; the sweating’s been toned down significantly, and the deathly pallor of the guy’s skin has faded in favor of its original fake tan.

“Should we flip a coin?” Grace asks, apparently only half-joking. Michaela stares, bewildered, at the quarter she’s produced from the neon jacket’s pocket. She drags her eyes up to Grace’s borrowed face, to which Grace shrugs and says, “I think it’s obvious by now that I’m useless in high-stakes situations.”

Michaela wouldn’t say that. Christ’s sake, if Grace hadn’t body-hopped in the first place then Michaela wouldn’t have been able to help her at all. It might’ve been more instinctual than anything else, but it got the job done, and Michaela’s gotta give her props for that. She gives praise where it’s due, it’s one of her best qualities. According to Spidey, anyway, but his opinion is equivalent to like, ten other distinct people in her book.

“Well, you haven’t almost gotten shot, so. Doing better than me the first time I tried the vigilante thing.”

Grace has that look about her that says she’s rethinking turning to Blackout for help in this trying time, so Michaela shores up what’s left of her scant courage and motions for Grace to stay where she is. Grace isn’t pleased with that idea, but she also doesn’t protest it, and Michaela gives her two thumbs up like an idiot before she slips over to the building to the left of the alley. The side door doesn’t budge when she pulls at the handle and yanking only gets her a screeching groan of rusted metal. So that’s out. She’s not about scaling the wall and heaving herself through a window, either; she did it once and that’s enough, and more than that, it’s Spidey’s territory, and she’s not going to step on his sticky toes.

That leaves her with very few options, none of them any more appealing than the others. Gritting her teeth in frustration, Michaela kicks out at the door and twists around, scanning the side of the building for a more viable entrance. She’s sparking, she knows – bursts of mostly-harmless electricity are crackling across every inch of her skin and diffusing into the air. It’s annoying only in that it’s raised the hair on her arms and the back of her neck, and it’s also probably given her a passing resemblance to Einstein, but she’s used to it by now; her body loves to physically express her anxiety and stress like this now, and she’s just had to learn to deal with it.

Grace, though, doesn’t know that. “Are you, uh… are you supposed to be doing that?”

Michaela pauses in her search, lifting a hand and splaying her fingers. She squints. Blue sparks jump between her fingers like a poor imitation of Jacob’s Ladder. This might… be slightly worse than her usual brand of anxiety. There’s a lot riding on her right now, okay, it’s enough to make her feel like she’s got bugs crawling under skin. Of course, in her case, it’s not bugs – it’s electricity, but. Points stands.

“Yeah, sure,” is what she says to Grace, with all the conviction of a wet noodle. Grace, accordingly, does not respond with enthusiastic relief. “I get… spark-y sometimes. Means I’m full of energy. It’s a good thing!”  
Not a lie, really. She _is _quite energetic at the moment; it’s just that all that energy is nervous, bordering-on-manic energy, and she’s one more stressor away from literally jumping out of her skin. But Grace doesn’t need to know that; _someone _here has to believe that Michaela can get this done, and since that ship sailed for Michaela a good fifteen minutes ago… Well. Needs must, and all that.

The reminder that someone’s life is on the line (like she ever _forgot_, Christ, it’s the only coherent thought running around in her head right now) has her doubling down on her efforts to get into the building, which brings her back to the side door. She crouches down a little, wincing at the creak of her knees, and peers at the lock. Old, she guesses, which fits in which the state of this neighborhood, and completely rusted over. She frowns, considering. It’s some kind of miracle that the lock didn’t crumble when she yanked at the handle the first time. Maybe she could…

Michaela shakes out her right hand, takes a deep breath. She’s gotten better at concentrating the electricity into specific points – the palm of her hand, for instance, or the tips of her fingers. She’s never figured out how to measure the wattage or voltage or whatever, but she’s felt the heat she radiates whenever she builds up the charge. Definitely worse than singeing your fingers on a lightbulb.

Might be enough to melt what’s left of this lock.

Michaela doesn’t let herself overthink it. She concentrates the electricity – whatever she can muster – into the tip of her pointer finger, and from the gasp Grace lets out the sight of it must be impressive, at least before Michaela jabs her finger at the lock and the lightning show zips right into the metal innards.

Curls of smoke drift out from the lock within seconds, and there’s that familiar ozone-burning scent that lingers after lightning storms. Michaela lets herself smile under the mask, pleased with her handywork. Who knew this would even—

“_Fuck_,” she hisses, whipping her hand back from the lock and cradling it to her chest. Fuck, that _hurt_. And it’s… ugh, her own fault apparently, seeing as the molten metal leaking out from the lock is her own doing. Typical. Ignoring the questioning noise Grace makes (Michaela doesn’t need the pity and/or scorn just now, thanks), Michaela straighten up and cautiously wraps her hand around the door handle again. There’s the expected jolt of something just a shade worse than static shock, courtesy of her still-sparking hand, but when she turns the handle…

Eureka! The door opens right up.

She also just thought _eureka _to herself, so. There’s that to remember later and wonder where the fuck _that _impulse came from. But for now, Michaela settles for grinning triumphantly to herself and looking back for Grace’s approval. Which. Not very heroic of her, sure, but that’s frankly asking too much of her anyhow.

Grace’s smile is watery but genuine, and Michaela offers another corny thumbs-up, too giddy with her minor victory to berate herself for it.

“You stay here, alright?” Michaela says. “I’ll—”

“Fuck no, I’m coming with you.”

Michaela blinks. “It’s… what?”

“I’m coming,” Grace says, hands on her hips, eyes alight with a challenge that Michaela is in no mood to tackle. “That’s my _body _in there, and I’m getting it back.”

That’s all well and good_, _Michaela thinks, but there’s also the issue of this poor sap that Grace is currently controlling. This is putting _him _in danger as much as it is Grace. And he’s got no way to consent to it. Fuck, Michaela hates ethical dilemmas – it’s much better when she knows who the bad guys are and she can let Matt kick the shit out of drug-dealers. Good times.

“Let the guy go first, then,” Michaela says without thinking too much about it. Clearly, it’s coming out of left field for Grace, too, because she gapes at Michaela, mid-emphatic hand gesture. “Let ‘em go,” Michaela repeats, firmer, drawing her shoulders back. “Your body’s in there, you can even direct me to where you are. This guy has nothing to do with what’s going on, and having him walk in there when he could get hurt, or _worse_? Shit thing to do, Grace. Sorry, but I’m not letting that happen.”

Michaela’s half-expecting fight, which they for sure do not have the time for, so she’s surprised when Grace bows her head in defeat, shoulders slumping and hands dropping limply to her sides.

“You’re right,” she says, her mouth curled into a reluctant smile. “Like I said. Not great in high-pressure situations. Be prepared to deal with this guy, though – he’s going to be, ah, disoriented.”

Oh, what? She’s doing it _right this second_? Michaela doesn’t have a game plan for this! She starts to say as much, to convince Grace to wait just a fucking second, but between one moment and the next, Grace is gone. Michaela doesn’t realize it at first, too tangled in the webs of her panic and anxiety, but she catches on fast – the way this guys stands is totally different from Grace. He uses his full height, despite it not being all that grand, his feet planted a few inches apart, his chest puffed out. He shakes his head, a hand pressing to his temple as if trying to forcibly shove back a headache. There’s a moment where he looks around, baffled, his eyes jumping from one unfamiliar thing to the next.

Then he lands on Michaela.

“Who the fuck’re you?”

Yikes, that’s an annoying voice. Somehow Grace softened the hard edges, smoothed out the hitches in his words. He also sort of sounds like he’s expecting to be drunk off his ass, his words not slurred, exactly, but unsteady, uncertain.

“Uh.” Michaela points to herself. “Blackout? Local vigilante? Presumed illegitimate daughter of Thor? Ringin’ any bells?”

The blank look he’s wearing means the answer is probably a big fat _no_ to all of that. Okay, no worries, Michaela can just. Call a fucking Uber and get this guy off the streets. Or get him to call Uber; she doesn’t have her regular phone on her and she’s not using Uber on her _burner phone_, that seems like a terrible (and amateurish) idea.

“Right,” she says, clapping her hands together and startling the guy enough that he jumps back from her. Michaela rolls her eyes, glad for once the gesture’s hidden behind the goggles. “You were _smashed _earlier, yeah? Wandered away from your friends or your date, I don’t know, and you’re now…” She cocks her head, surreptitiously checking the closest street sign that’s just barely visible from the mouth of the alley, which she then rattles off for his benefit. “Here. For some reason. Didn’t, ya know, catch your life story while I was… stopping you from getting mugged?” Flimsy excuse, but she rolls with it. “Because, as previously mentioned, I’m a vigilante. Hero, fuck. I’m a.”

She pauses, considering his wide eyes and defensive stance. “I’m… not the Winter Soldier?” she tries, and the immediate relief that floods through this guy is offensive somehow, though she couldn’t put her finger on why if you asked her to. “Okay, look, I know the goggles and the mask are _similar _but, my dude, my guy, if I radiate even a _fraction _of the murder vibes that man gave off, then I’d have been arrested already.”

Not that the police haven’t tried their damnedest to make that happen, but. If he doesn’t know jack-shit about her vigilante track record, then he doesn’t need to know about all _that_.

God, what Michaela wouldn’t give for the Men in Black flashy-things that rewrite a person’s memory. They’d make this shit-show a helluva lot easier to navigate.

“You’re free to go,” Michaela says eventually, gesturing expansively to the street. The guy tracks the movement with his eyes but doesn’t move to leave. “I’m not, uh. Holding you hostage? Or whatever you’re thinking?” She rolls her hand, motioning for him to scamper off, back to whatever drug-induced euphoria Grace likely pulled him away from. “Um. Please go?”

“Fucking freak,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets and pivoting sharply on his heel to storm out of the alley. She waits until she hears him on the phone with someone, loudly complaining about the _fucking freak who probably fucking abducted him _before she flips him the finger and turns back to the warehouse.

Okay. One problem crossed off the list. Now she just has to find Grace and get her the hell out of this warehouse. Easy.

_Famous last words_, Michaela thinks, pinching the bridge of her nose, before she ducks into the darkness of the warehouse.


	16. chapter thirteen | it had to happen sometime (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, you know, that chapter when everyone finds out the author can't write fight scenes.

So, good news first: Michaela picked the right warehouse! Three cheers all around, she didn’t get the fifty-fifty shot wrong on her first try.

Now the bad news: Inside the old, abandoned warehouse… is not an old abandoned warehouse.

Two steps in and she comes to a grinding halt, a _zing _of apprehension shooting down her spine. It’s like she’s stepped inside the TARDIS; not so much that everything’s bigger on the inside, but the insides do not match the outsides at all. Come to think of it, she’s dated people like that. What disappointing human beings they turned out to be.

The warehouse, though. It’s… more reminiscent of an old library, she thinks. High walls, soaring ceilings, wood paneling everywhere. Shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books, stacked floor to ceiling. It’s cooler in here than the dead heat of summer that permeates the outside world, and the scent of filth and shit stopped the second she crossed the threshold, as if it hit a barrier it couldn’t cross. Straight ahead of her there’s a set of solid-legged wooden tables, some of them adorned with clothes, others bare and topped with things she can’t name but that look like they belong in museums across the globe. Artifacts from ancient lands, almost, something resurrected from the earth and sealed behind glass for the rest of human existence.

Except. You know. They’re all just casually out here, uncovered, looking pristine and not at all like they’ve been damaged by time or neglect.

A _thud _from behind her makes Michaela nearly shriek, and she almost bites off her tongue in her haste to stifle herself. She glances back, groans at the sight of the closed door. That’s fantastic. Lovely.

_Where the fuck is Grace? _

That’s what she should be channeling her focus into. Finding Grace and getting the fuck out of here. She’d guessed whoever took Grace has powers of their own, so the grandiose interior shouldn’t freak her out as badly as it does, but she just. Wasn’t expecting this. She’d been imagining something akin to a gritty action film, the damsel in distress handcuffed to a protruding pipe, the abductor cackling madly in the corner while he rattled off his nefarious plans.

The sleep deprivation, as always, is her go-to excuse for the fucking shitshow that is her mind.

She’s wishing for a cliched action movie fix right now, though – the Avengers swooping in at the eleventh-hour kind of thing, busting through a wall and shouting out some hackneyed line about saving the day, twisting up the bag guy in a conveniently placed length of rope. No rope here, just her and her toaster-oven hands, slinking along the edge of a bookshelf and hoping to whatever deity is potentially watching from the ether that she’s learned _something _from Matt, the king of sneakity-sneaking. The floors are some glistening, exotic hardwood and unlikely to creak, but she steps lightly anyway, trailing a hand along the spines of the books lined up beside her.

There are hardly any sounds that she can make out besides the soft inhales and exhales of her own breathing. No voices, no sounds of a struggle. There is, however, a faint hum that she honestly feels more than hears, a vibration of the air, almost, prickling over her exposed skin and competing with the electricity zipping through her body for making her practically tremble with anticipation.

She’d downplay it, write it off as nothing more than faulty wiring or whatever those paranormal debunkers usually tout as the reason for ghostly encounters, but. Uh. The only lighting she’s noticed so far comes from the frankly absurd number of candles that are planted on every available surface. They’re perched high on top of the bookshelves, scattered in between the artifacts on the tables, cradled in candelabras hung from the wall. The effect they all generate is almost hypnotizing, watching the play of flickering shadows across the walls and the book spines, warm golden light glinting off the shinier artifacts in the room. Every momentary flash catches her eye and she has to fight to urge not to chase the perception of movement.

Fucking hell, she wasn’t built for stealth missions. Matt knows this, it’s why he never has her enter possibly hideouts for gangs first. Although they have made use of powers more than once, having her knock out the lights so Matt can duck in and do his thing. Too bad that’s not applicable here, what with the lack of electrical lighting. Goddamn medieval lighting fixtures, ruining her rescue missions.

Michaela pauses at the edge of the room, flattening herself against the bookcase at her back and leaning forward just enough to peek around the corner. She squints, berating herself for not thinking to push her goggles up; the lighting’s dim already, and the extra layer only darkens the shadows and freaks her out all the more. Her identity isn’t the main issue here, so she rips the goggles off and tucks them into the pocket of sweatshirt, blinking to adjust herself to the half-lit gloom. Fewer candles dot this new space, but a there’s an oddly cozy-looking fire roaring in a hearth towards the back wall that makes up for it, casting the tell-tale shadows across the adjacent walls.

And – oh. That is a woman, lying atop a wooden table. In the center of the room.

“Please be Grace,” Michaela whispers to herself, because good _god_, does she not want there to be _multiple women _being held hostage in this librarian nightmare hellscape.

No one else is around (at least, that’s what Michaela’s five senses are telling her, but fuck if she’s the most reliable when it comes to observation), so she makes quick work of crossing the room and circling around to the head of the table, which. Her footsteps must alert the woman to her presence because she turns her head when Michaela gets close, her brown eyes blown wide with fear. Sweat beads at her temples, dampening her hairline, but her mouth is a flat, thin line, expressionless.

That’s so very not good.

“Grace?” Michaela whispers, watching the woman’s face and biting back a sigh of relief when she twitches in an approximation of a nod. “Shit, okay, so you’re still frozen. We’ll fix that, I promise, just. Hold on for a sec.” As if she has any other choice. Judging by the look in her eyes (visible just beyond the sheen of terror, which is to be expected), Grace is duly unimpressed with Michaela’s word choice. And that’s fair, it really is. If their positions were reversed Michaela would be loudly thinking every curse in her rather extensive vocabulary in the hopes that her thoughts might be felt, if not heard.

Backtracking, Michaela lifts her hands in surrender, her brows furrowing as she flicks her eyes along Grace’s body. She’s prostrate on the table, held down with nothing visible. No ropes, no chains, nothing Michaela can get her free of easily. Fuck, her DnD campaigns in high school were really not any sort of preparation for dealing with real-life magic. Michaela didn’t even believe in magic until a few months ago! Not even with Thor, and that guy is as close to a living god as Michaela is ever going to find. Her own powers are… something genetic-related, right, so not magic. This is not her area of expertise, or anywhere in the vicinity of that area.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

None of that can show on her face, not even for a split second, and Michaela debates the merits of pulling her goggles back on just so Grace won’t see the uncertainty in her eyes, the wrinkle between her brows that says very fucking clearly that nothing about this situation is okay.

“Alright,” Michaela says, breathing in sharply through her nose. “Alright, okay, we’re gonna figure this out. Is the guy here? Blink once for yes, twice for no, yeah?”

Two quick blinks. Okay, good. Granted, Grace’s visibility is severely limited, but Michaela will take whatever breaks she can get.

“Do you remember anything about when he… fuck. Uh. When he cursed you, or. Whatever we’re calling this?”

Two blinks, slow and pointed and okay, yeah, Michaela gets it, Grace would have told have told her that when she was in the jackass’ body if it were something she knew. Or she could be reminding Michaela with _subtly _that she’s in no condition to recite whatever mystic bullshit she may or may not have overhead. Again, fair point. That just doesn’t leave Michaela with many options. Unless. Well. These books have gotta be here for a reason… right?

“You want weapons? We’re in a library. Books!” Michaela mumbles to herself. “The best weapons in the world!” She cuts a glance at Grace and, uh. Shit. That’s some recognition she wasn’t anticipating. Heat floods Michaela’s cheeks and she awkwardly shoves away from the table. “_Yes, _it was a _Doctor Who _reference, no, I wasn’t expecting you to get it. Please don’t leak it to the tabloids that I’m a nerd, my reputation takes enough hits as it is.”

The closest shelf brackets the fireplace, every book tucked nearly into its place, the spines carefully aligned, though the order of them makes no sense to her. It’s not alphabetical, and there’s no distinction between languages. English sits right next to what she’s pretty sure is Latin, the both them between Cantonese and Arabic. Italian, Portuguese, French, a dozen languages she can’t name or even begin to comprehend. The titles of those she understands are vague and unhelpful, a fair number of them devoted to specific categories of magic that aren’t remotely applicable to the situation right now.

Who the fuck needs to know how to read the auras of _stag beetles_? Stag beetles, of all things. A whole book on stag beetle aura reading. Someone really sat down one day and decided _hey, this is something the world is sorely lacking_. And then they wrote a thick-ass book on it.

And Michaela thought she had too much time on her hands.

She skims over one shelf, scowls beneath the mask and ducks down to check the one below it. Most of the leather is warm and soft against her fingers, supple with age and that peculiar devotion found only in the lovers of old books. She hits something that is not leather and also furry and she moves the fuck on without letting her brain register the title. God, she has not one iota of a clue as to what she’s looking for here. There are, apparently, spells and incantations for literally everything, but she’s not seeing anything that could unfreeze Grace and possibly unlock that door so they can escape with their lives (and hopefully their dignities) intact.

_The Art of Grecian Transfiguration_, interesting but useless under the circumstances. _Intent: Overcoming the Limitations of the Human Form_, cult-like and not what she’s in need of at the moment. Something in French that maybe possibly has to do with butterflies and the blood of worms, Michaela took a year of it in high school, she’s by no means fluent. _A Treatise on the Many Facets of Control_—

Ooh, promising.

Michaela’s hooked a finger over the top of the book’s spine, intent on pulling it down and skimming the fuck out of it (a skill she’s very much perfected since enrolling in college) when someone clears their throat, in that obnoxious way that’s meant to convey that you have royally fucked up and are about to get reamed for it.

Yikes. Michaela has heard that exact sound in her nightmares, usually accompanied by the gap-toothed grin and soulless eyes of Mr. Kelly, her ninth-grade history teacher.

Given that it is statistically unlikely that Mr. Kelly has suddenly materialized in this magical library of fucking terror, that really limits the possibilities as to who just walked into the room.

“I see that you’ve finally tracked me down, Blackout. You’ve taken your time with it. And here I thought I was leaving breadcrumbs for you all this time.”

Yup. That’s that last voice she wanted to hear tonight.

Fucking wizards and their fucking bullshit magical agendas.

Michaela snags the book when she turns, doing a piss-poor job of casually tucking it behind her back but going for it regardless. Her shoulders tense instinctively, her feet spreading to adjust her balance, distributing her weight as evenly as she can. Like that’s going to stop her from getting flung head-first into a portal to fuck-knows-where, but. It soothes the high-pitched bitching her anxiety’s started on, the almost-static that fizzles in her head and sparks down her spine, numbing the tips of her fingers. Could also be the surge of electricity that’s now coiling around her muscles, stimulating nerve endings with pain-not-pain and giving her the insane urge to just fucking _run_.

He looks about the same as he did the last time she had the pleasure of having her ass her ass handed to her by him. Decked out in a long, sleeveless forest-green cloak, the hood of which he’s drawn so far forward that it casts his entire face into shadow. Intricate tattoos inked in gold on his tanned biceps and forearms, spiraling into foreign designs that practically radiate energy of their own. He’s carrying a wooden staff, though, that’s new. It rests against his shoulder now, but she doubts it’s there to help him walk or climb stairs or any other innocuous reason. Golden lines are carved into the wood’s smooth surface, not an exact match for the script on his arms but definitely the same language judging by the characters she’s able to pick out.

“Would you just, ya know, cutting the shit and letting the woman go?”

Wizard man huffs a laugh, tapping the staff rhythmically against his shoulder. Michaela doesn’t know what’s so fucking about her question, but he’s crazy, so she figures it’s not something for her to understand anyway.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Michaela narrows her eyes. What kind of question is that? “The assumption here is that I don’t, so let’s just roll with that.”

She watches him step closer to Grace, who’s gone deathly pale with the wizard’s appearance, and Michaela moves towards her as a result, wanting to get between them but knowing she isn’t fast enough even with the minor enhancements she can manage with her powers. And as tempted as she is to just launch a barrage of bolts at him, she knows from painfully personal experience that he can get those fancy shields of his up fast enough to block her without much effort. Attacking is only going to put Grace in more danger – she remembers that first fight, when everything she threw at him only ricocheted into the asphalt or the nearby buildings.

Michaela is _not _going to fry the person she’s promised to save. That’s just common sense.

“You Inhumans, you’re powerful,” the wizard says, close enough now to Grace to reach out and – his hand encircled with those golden glowing circles that always mean trouble for Michaela – pass a hand down the length of her body, though he’s careful not to touch her directly. Light seems to shimmer out from beneath Grace’s skin, like sunlight seen through clear water, pulsating in time with what Michaela would guess is her heartbeat. “There’s so much potential inside of you, so much raw energy, and it can take any number of forms. For you, Blackout, it modeled itself after the lightning that screams through the heavens; for this woman, it gave her the power to deliver her spirit from her body and implant it inside another’s. That’s a trick I’m only half able to complete myself. As for the others…”

Alarm bells clang around in Michaela’s head. Her grip on the book tightens to the point of pain but she doesn’t spare it a thought. _Others_. She’d thought – she’d made that connection weeks ago, but it was a hunch, a gut feeling, an itch under her skin that no amount of assurance from Matt could soothe. Jessica sort of confirmed it for her, or at least gave her some steadier footing for her paranoia to take root, but she. She didn’t know until _right this fucking second _that this asshole had been the one to kidnap all those other Inhumans.

Nausea rises in her throat like bile, choking her. When she manages to speak, the words are rough and sharp, cut up from grating against her teeth. “What the _fuck _kind of god complex do you have?”

She swears he smiles, even though all she sees of his mouth is a faint outline, the barest impression of cheekbones and a square chin. “There are no gods,” he says, “none, except for those we grant power over ourselves. But when _you_ are the one in possession of power, when you cannot be conquered or subdued… You bow to no one. And isn’t that what humanity is ultimately after? Freedom from our oppressors?”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Michaela says, risking a glance at Grace. She hasn’t moved still, hasn’t so much as twitched a finger, and her skin still glitters with whatever the wizard did to her. From his _insane _ramblings, she’s gathered it’s probably a visual representation of the energy inside of Grace, the genetic potential that comes with being an Inhuman descendent. It’s troubling, is what it is, because all that energy, that power? That’s Grace – that’s a part of her, down to the bone, to the DNA. And the wizard’s talking like he wants to hoover it out of her.

“I don’t have a god complex. I’m not passing judgement on who lives and dies, and I’m not shaping creation to my will. What I am is a collector looking to add to his collection.”

“You don’t have enough books already?”

They’re not talking about the books.

The wizard _definitely_ smiles now, white teeth pale and ghostly in the hollow shadow of his face. “What collector is ever satisfied with what they already have?”

Okay, fuck that.

Michaela lunges for Grace, throwing out a burst of electricity at the wizard, who gamely deflects with his shields, sending the lightning into the closest bookcase. The leather-bound tomes erupt with flames, the scattered sparks catching on anything flammable, which – is a lot in here.

Michaela ignores it, though, braces herself over Grace and slams the book down on the table beside her prone body. It’s flung open to a random page and Michaela scans it quickly, desperate for the right words to jump out at her; before she even makes a dent in the page the wizard is there, whipping his staff around and nearly taking Michaela’s head off her shoulders with it. As it is, she only just manages to duck, curling her hands around the far edge of the table and heaving it sideways with her. It sends Grace tumbling to the floor (which Michaela will apologize for _profusely _later when they’re not about to _die_, _holy fucking shit this is madness_).

The table’s a flimsy shield, Michaela’s not kidding herself with this, but it gives her a second to (_gently_) roll Grace back behind her. Grace watches her the whole time with wet eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, and Michaela has never felt as helpless as she does right now. She snatches the book from the floor and tucks it into Grace’s side, masterfully avoiding eye contact, then pops back up just as the staff is making another swing for her. Only, it’s too far away, there’s no way it’s going to make contact—

A yelp escapes her as she’s thrown back into the shelves, the breath punched from her lungs as her shoulders and back connect _hard _with the wood, the impact enough to drive splinters into the nape of her neck. _Fuck_. Michaela drops down to the ground in a heap of uncooperative limbs, choking out a gasp. Blood coats her tongue from where she bit into her cheek, and she spits out as much as she can, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

Fuck, _fuck_, what was that? The staff didn’t come near her, but it felt like, like _something _smacked into her chest. Something hit her and sent her flying across the room. Fuck, she doesn’t have time for this, Grace is—

Ugh.

Michaela struggles to her feet, vaguely aware of the sparks she’s emitting from practically every inch of her skin, most of them harmless and fizzling out in her clothes.

And there’s the asshole, casually twirling the staff around, head cocked to the side. Curious, maybe, or impatient, waiting for her to do more than get her ass handed to her time and again.

“Have I introduced myself yet?” he asks, calm and cool and getting on every single one of her nerves. “Most call me Cato, though I must admit the name doesn’t suit me these days.”

Is he… is he serious? Cato? Like the dick from _The Hunger Games_? “Suits you… just fine, in my opinion,” Michaela grits out, eyeing where Grace is still sprawled out a few feet away, unmoving. Except— Michaela snaps her attention back to _Cato_, the fucker, waves a hand absently and says, “What do you want outta this? To kill us?”

Another knife-edged smile. “You? Not quite. Not yet. Now, come. That can’t be the best you can do?”

Well, since he’s asking so _nicely_…

Michaela usually holds back when she’s using the electricity on actual real-live people. She’s not a fan of murder, you know? Vigilantism is the extent of her illegal activities, and she’s never really run into anyone who took more than a few strategically placed shocks to take down. Even with the other Inhuman, Rodriguez, when she went overboard it was instinctual, unconscious. But now? Now she’s not so sure she cares about the consequences so long as she gets Grace out of this alive.

That’s a dangerous mindset, and if Matt were here, he’d be readying some pacifying speech that would no doubt have her dialing back the voltage in a heartbeat, because the guy may delve into the gray area more than she does, but he’s got a moral compass that Michaela would bet her soul on.

Matt’s not here, though. What a shame.

Lightning crackles in the palms of both her hands, hot and shrieking, tendrils of it streaking up her forearms. She’s never tested this, how much damage she can do in one go, one concentrated blast. It’s heady, too, holding this much power in her hands, knowing it’s probably enough to blackout an entire block, if not more.

God, she really needs that therapist.

Cato, evidently done waiting on her to make the first move, parkours his way over the overturned table, swinging his staff down in an arc that—fuck, she sees it now, the shockwave it throws out. She scrambles to dodge, feels the air rush past the side of her face and nearly yank her hair out of its braid; she manages to turn her fall into a roll and comes up standing at an angle from Cato, the lightning bright and burning in her hands. He twists to face her, the staff moving, and she doesn’t think, doesn’t question whether she’s making the right choice – she claps her hands together and a white-hot bolt of lightning lances into Cato.

He’s still fast, still smart as hell, and the bolt hits his side rather than his chest, but it spins him from the impact, and he crashes shoulder-first into the wall. Michaela takes her chance and fires off another blast, aiming for the hand holding the staff, but Cato adjusts his grip and another shockwave counters her electricity with a resounding _boom_.

This is about when the acrid smell of smoke hits Michaela head-on. It’s so strong she has to swallow down her gag reflex, pressing both hands over her nose and mouth. Over the near-constant crackling of her electricity there’s the sizzle-pop of fire eating away at a university’s worth of books. _Shit_. What started off as a small blaze on one shelf has blossomed into something that _really _wants to be an inferno, the fire overtaking shelf after shelf, climbing up to the ceiling. Shit, shit, _shit_, she needs to go, Grace needs to get out of here; Michaela turns to find her, god, she took off her goggles and her eyes are _stinging_—

Another shockwave knocks her into the table. Her head rings from the impact, every thought shaken loose and rattling around her skull in a rush of white noise. She hears something, a voice, garbled words, _fuck_ that _hurt_ – Michaela grabs at her head and forces herself to look up, straining to see through the growing smoke. A haze of gray, flashes of orange-red and burgundy, and. Ah, fuck, _Grace_.

She moves faster than her thoughts can process; one second, she’s sitting, dazed and teary-eyed, on the floor, the next she’s launching herself at Cato’s broad back, wrapping her arms around his neck and trying to jam a sparking hand under his hood. It breaks his concentration and the golden portal he’d been creating sputters and dies as he grabs at her wrist, pulsing bracelets of gold encircling his forearm. Michaela only faintly registers the pain of whatever he’s doing to her, most of her focus on Grace, who’s finally regained control of her limbs and is fighting to push herself to a standing position.

“Get outta here!” Michaela yells, desperate to heard over the roar of the fire, though the tail end of her sentence gets sharpened into a high-pitched whimper as something _hot as hellfire _latches onto her waist, jerking her free of Cato.

That’s the third time she’s been tossed aside like a ragdoll and she has to say, she’s not a fan.

Easing herself onto her stomach, hissing air through her clenched teeth, Michaela takes stock of her various aches and pains. Her head is pounding out a staccato beat but it’s bearable for now; her upper back throbs from her run-in with the shelves; there’s a smattering of surface-level burns on her hands, the result of her channeling so much power at once – it’s left her gloves singed, too, and god, she cannot catch a break tonight. The newest addition, though, is the searing strip of heat wrapped around her waist, which she can trace back to the… what does she even _call_ that? Cato’s holding what looks like a whip of pure magical energy in his hand. He must have… grabbed hold of her with it and pulled. Fantastic. He’s got even more tricks up his nonexistent sleeves. What a resourceful guy.

Okay. Okay, she’s not dead yet, right, that’s the takeaway here. She’s not dead, and that means she needs to get back up, get to Grace, and finish what she started here tonight. Cato’s a not-altogether-unexpected wrench in her plans but she’s very much seething with rage right now, and she’s sure as hell not letting him get what he wants from Grace. Over her fucking dead body.

Grace, thankfully, seems to have been able to move some during the struggle. She’s closer now to the doorway Michaela originally came through, further away from Michaela, technically, but also further away from Cato. She can work with that, she can.

“Grace!” The name feels scraped out of her, her throat raw from the smoke, but it gets Grace’s attention. Michaela gestures wildly to the exit even as she’s heaving herself to her feet, moving to intercept Cato. “Grace, go, go, go! Get out, go—fuck, go find Daredevil! He’ll help you, okay, he’ll—”

The whip winds around her wrist, yanking her off-balance. She bites back a scream, unwilling to give Cato the satisfaction. The hold on her wrist tightens and she sees him maneuvering the staff again, fuck, that’s not good, she can’t take another hit from that. Thinking fast, she fires off one more bolt at his chest at the same time as she electrifies the opposite hand, disrupting the energy of the whip enough that it disengages from her arm and she’s allowed to fall back onto her ass.

A hand lands on her shoulder and it’s only because she can barely see straight that she doesn’t immediately shock whoever it belongs to. Lucky for her, seeing as it’s Grace, crouched down at her side and tugging at her, urging her to her feet. Michaela is a little peeved, honestly; she told Grace to _go_, and generally that’s understood to mean the person should, ah, get the fuck out of Dodge? Grace is staring at her, wild-eyed with her panic, and it occurs to Michaela that some of that thought might have slipped out. Whoops. No time to take it back, though, as she can see Cato rising from the corner of her eye. They’ve got a very small window here and Michaela is damn determined to shove Grace through it with everything she has.

“Grace,” Michaela hisses once she’s upright, “Grace, I’ll be right behind you, but you have to go _now_, okay? Go, uh, go—” She rattles off her home address, latching onto the first semi-safe place that comes to mind. Grace doesn’t question it, doesn’t ask where it is she’s being told to go. She nods tightly, her mouth pressed into a trembling line, tear-tracks cutting through the soot staining her cheeks. “Through there,” Michaela says, pointing at the doorway. “Run through there and then it’s a straight shot to the exit, alright? It…”

She can’t guarantee it’s going to open when Grace reaches it, but Michaela’s not snuffing out that flicker of hope, she’s not. There’s no point. If that door won’t open, then neither of them is making it out of this alive, and that is not an outcome she’s willing to entertain at this juncture.

Grace is gone, then, downright booking it through the entryway despite the aftereffects of whatever magic she had done on her. Michaela nearly breathes a sigh of relief. Seeing Grace rounding that corner… it lifts a weight from her shoulders she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying, and the resulting loss of pressure makes her want to drop to her knees. Except, you know. She has other things to deal with presently before total loss of coordination is acceptable.

The heat licks at Michaela’s skin as she turns back to Cato; sweat trickles down from her hairline into her eyes, pools at the small of her back and dampens her hands, which. Ouch. That only aggravates the burns on her palms, and she irritably shakes out her hands in some vain attempt to waft away the pain. Cato, when she spots him, is watching her again, his staff held loosely in both hands, his hood tossed back, revealing the half-mask that covers the lower portion of his face, and bright eyes she can’t make out the color of from this distance, especially not with the cloud of smoke between them. His head is shaved, though, she thinks, only a layer of fine, bristly hair left behind.

They observe one another for a few suffocating moments. A chunk of burning ceiling crashes down a good half a foot from where Michaela’s standing, and she’s so caught up in ensuring Cato doesn’t get the drop on her that she hardly flinches. Michaela’s only an idiot part-time – she’s aware that if he wanted to, Cato could sparkler himself a portal and chase after Grace in an instant. The fact that he’s here instead, with her, means something, though she’s loathed to know exact what.

“What now?” she finds herself asking, so keyed up she’s shaking with it. Everything hurts, though she notes, somewhere in the back of her frazzled mind, that this isn’t anywhere near as debilitating as her fight with Rodriguez. She’ll bruise and scar, maybe, but she can walk away from this as of right now.

“What now, indeed,” Cato says, apparently unruffled by having his book collection in flames around him.

Michaela grits her teeth. Lightning curls around her fingers, flicking off into the fire with every minute flex of her hands. She’s at a clear disadvantage, which is frankly obvious to everyone involved. Cato could shoot her into space with one of his portals, probably, and she’d be helpless to stop him. There’s no happy ending in sight for her that she can see. At least Grace got out – Michaela did something right, there. She can be proud of that when she’s rotting in hell, or wherever all the nonbelievers go. She’s pretty sure they have an actual circle of hell dedicated to them, which is pretty damn cool, honestly.

Only.

Only Cato is there one second and gone the next, a shower of golden sparks cascading down in his wake.

Michaela’s almost vibrating with panic and fear and about eleven other terrifying emotions, and that, that’s just _rude_, because now she’s hyperventilating over the possibility that he _went after Grace anyway_, despite whatever bullshit connection she’d tapped into earlier. She glances frantically around the flaming room, sees neither hide nor hair of the magical bastard, and abruptly takes off after Grace, stumbling her way past the towering walls of fire and not giving one fuck about her safety in the process.

(These clothes are a lost cause and she just doesn’t want to admit it to herself at this point)

The door _is _open, thank fuck, and Michaela doesn’t hesitate as she runs out of the warehouse-slash-villainous hideout into the blessedly cool night. Well. It’s cool, yeah, but by no means quiet – sirens from about three different emergency response vehicles are absolutely wailing, there’s firemen yelling and the roar of the hose as it works to douse the warehouse’s flames, and yet _more yelling _from four or so cops, and—

Oh, fuckity _fuck_, that fucker set her up.

Michaela has nowhere to run – it’s either straight into the restrictive arms of the police or back into the currently-on-fire warehouse, because she knows this alley dead ends, and she does not, unfortunately, have Matt’s parkour skills. Plus, two of the cops have already spotted her and are making their way over, handcuffs all nice and shiny on their belts and guns raised and at the ready.

She lifts her own hands, places them on the back of her head. Oh, no, no, no, now is not the time for a panic attack, she has to stay focused, she has to, to figure out how she’s going to—god, how she’s going to _not get arrested._

Fuck, she really thought it would be Spider-Man.

Michaela doesn’t say a word as she’s read her rights; there’s nothing to say, and, really, she just plain doesn’t want to open her mouth. She’d _like _to know where Grace is, if she made it out before the cops arrived or if she’s huddled in the back of an ambulance somewhere. If Cato got to her in the end. But no one is going to answer her questions, she can read that much from their stony expressions, so what’s the point? They don’t immediately rip her mask off and demand to know her identity, so. There’s that.

The humiliating aspect of all this will come later, she supposes, when they stick her in an interrogation room and try to get her to confess to setting the warehouse alight. No one is going to believe that she _dueled a wizard _and saved a woman who _body hops_, okay. She can throw lightning around and Captain America is just about a hundred years old and can still lift a car, but wizards? That’s asking too much.

Michaela’s just about shoved into the back of a squad car when semi-familiar voice calls out, “We can take care of this one, gentlemen.”

Michaela’s head snaps up and she strains to see over the shoulder of the very rude officer with his hands still insistently pressing at her shoulders. And – huh. Phil Coulson, in the flesh, appearing out of the shadows of the alley like a bad fucking omen.

Well, ain’t that an interesting twist?

…goddamn, she hopes Matt doesn’t already think she’s dead, she doesn’t know when she’s going to be able to contact him. The last thing she needs is a repeat of her last encounter with SHIELD. Although her heart-to-heart with Matt wasn’t all bad…

Ugh. Whatever this is, she just wants it over with so she can sleep for the next two weeks, uninterrupted.

Or death. Death actually sounds pretty good right about now.


	17. chapter fourteen | living through the aftermath is a bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt gets an unsettling phone call.

In the weeks since Matt more or less accidentally showed his hand to Michaela, he’s been equal parts relieved and anxious. Relieved, obviously, because Michaela finally isn’t someone he has to tiptoe around – she knows him, both sides, and, like Karen and Foggy, she didn’t immediately kick him to the curb. And she would have had more reason than most, what with him not letting her know he was aware of her secret identity until he was called out on it.

He’s anxious, though, and contrary to popular belief, it’s only gotten worse these last few weeks, because now Matt has… it’s not a _need_, per se, Michaela is an adult and a super-powered one at that, she’s not looking to be coddled, and maybe especially not by him, but. She checks in every night, or close to it, and he’s always able to think a little more clearly after she’s done it.

She hasn’t checked in tonight.

It’s a slow night by his standards. He and Foggy have been taking on more cases lately, most of them pro bono, and while it hasn’t made a sizeable difference in the neighborhood, he’s starting to see the ripple effect. More people going to jail for the crimes they commit, more people feeling safe in their own homes, getting the justice they deserve. And Matt’s not giving himself the credit, their legal work has been seventy-five percent Foggy and the rest of it is probably Karen – Matt’s been taking the night shift, so to speak, and it means he’s not making it to as many court dates as he’d like. Or as many as Foggy would like, and Foggy hasn’t even really forgiven him for the entire Frank Castle fiasco.

Matt hasn’t forgiven himself for that one, either, but as Michaela likes to remind him, that’s at least partially the Catholic guilt talking. Doesn’t make it any easier to ignore, but he’s working on it.

So, slow night, nothing out of the ordinary besides the odd screeching of stray alley cats duking it out over food scraps. Matt’s staking out a rooftop, far enough from home that there’s no viable connection but close enough that, internally, he wonders if suiting up was worth the effort. Casting out his senses only gets him inconsequential feedback: the rumble of faraway cars, the buzz of streetlights, mundane conversations from the residents of the buildings in the surrounding area.

Rocking back on his heels, Matt reaches for the hidden pocket of his suit and draws out his phone. He tugs his glove off with his teeth, so he has a free hand to work the touchscreen, swiping the phone open. His thumb taps restlessly against the cool surface of the glass.

Call or don’t call? She’s not going to be mad if he calls and interrupts her, or if she has a voicemail waiting for her when she has a free minute to catch her breath. He knows that from experience (and also from the laughter she’d spilled down the line when he called back after she left _him _a voicemail while he was in the middle of breaking up a gang fight). But if feels like he’s giving in if he calls before she does; not that he knows what he’d be giving in _to_, and not that it’s a contest, he’s not losing anything either way.

Except maybe his sanity.

_I’m acting like I’m back in middle school_, he thinks, a little too amused at his own insecurity. Making fun of it is better than confronting it, he supposes, though it’s certainly not getting him anywhere.

…Matt took down the genius-level leader of a massive crime syndicate, and he doesn’t know whether he should call the woman he likes. The spider kid calls Michaela without hesitation, and here Matt is – _hesitating. _

“Alright,” he murmurs, tightening his grip on the phone. “Just call her, Murdock, the worst that can happen is she doesn’t pick up right away.”

Matt holds down the home button. “Call _Michaela_—”

_Sirens_.

His head turns automatically, following the course of the police cars and fire trucks as they screech into a turn onto 11th Avenue. The docks? Most of the warehouse buildings in that area are abandoned, the factories they catered to dried up in the recession. Matt’s there often enough because it’s a prime location for anyone actively breaking laws to hide out, so he’s not surprised that the police have been called down there. But the fire department…

A sinking feeling settles in the pit of Matt’s stomach.

He’s on his feet and clambering down the fire escape in moments, his phone tucked away and forgotten, heart thudding in his chest in a way that has nothing to do with the sudden exertion. He’s quick to hit the ground running, taking off down street in the direction of the docks. The rooftops might be faster but he’s distracted and he’s painfully aware of it; the last thing he needs is to lose a handhold or not stick the landing, so he’s grounded for the time being, narrowing his focus down to the sounds immediately around him and those of the emergency response vehicles that are slowing to a stop.

Running at this speed, he’ll make it there in fifteen minutes, less if doesn’t hit any moving traffic he has to dodge around. That’s—

“_Michaela is calling_.”

Matt freezes, shooting out a hand to catch on a passing stop sign, dragging himself to a standstill. He’s breathing sharp and fast and that’s not his normal for a run like that, fuck, he has got to pull himself together.

“Michaela,” he says, once he’s sure he won’t sound like he’s been sprinting through the city for the last five minutes. His voice still hitches, caught on the edge of a breath his lungs are desperate for.

“_Matty_,” she says, low and soft, careful. Like she doesn’t want to be overheard. She’s quiet, then, only her breathing coming through clearly.

Shit. That’s a tone he only just recognizes, one that brings to mind the suffocating space of a secret he shouldn’t have kept, the distance of a few inches that felt like miles. Matt braces a hand against the stop sign, leans his forehead into the crook of his arm. Breathes in, out, listens to the _creaks _of his body armor shifting with his movements.

“I was about to make my way over to the docks,” he says, closing his eyes when he hears her inhale sharply. “Any reason I should’ve been there earlier?”

“_Matt, I—_”

“You really need to start taking your own advice, Michaela. What’s the point in connecting all of us when you never call in anyone for backup?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment. There’s chatter in the background, the sirens dulled by distance and possibly a wall; two, three people talking together, hushed, not wanting to intrude on Michaela’s conversation. He’d give a lot to be there next to her, to know who she’s with, because he hates the quiver in her voice and her uneven breathing, the groan of plastic under the heavy press of her fingers. Hates that he _doesn’t know why she’s scared and vulnerable_.

God, does he wish she’d called him sooner.

“_It’s… I know, okay? I know. I made what is, in retrospect, a dumbass decision to go it alone when I didn’t have to. But. Fuck, I don’t know, I panicked. But Matt, this girl, she came to _me_, she wanted _me _to help, and then everything happened so fucking fast… Just. _Fuck, _fuck, give me a second_.”

He gives it to her. Gives her a hundred or so of them, in fact, while she strangles the sob clawing its way up her throat. He wills himself to stay quiet, to not press; he remembers lashing out at Karen when they were together, lashing out at her after, even, wanting to keep her safe and stifling her in the process. He’s not making that mistake again, not with Michaela, but he’s _aching_ to do it regardless.

“_I’m… mostly okay. That doesn’t sound reassuring and trust me, I am aware, but it’s the truth. I’m hurt, and it sucks, but I walked it off, yeah? You should know, though. The uh. The wizard? He’s a lot more of an evil shit than I thought._”

“…the wizard?”

“_Long story short?_”

“I’d rather you give me the long version, if you’ve got the time for it.”

She doesn’t. Her fidgeting is audible even through the phone, and he’d bet on her looking over her shoulder, wary of whoever’s with her.

“_Long version_,” she echoes, each word heavier than the last. He almost takes it back, but she carries on without waiting for him, shoring herself up with a deep breath he can’t help but emulate. “_Okay, right, I can do that. Coulson can wait for that goddamn debrief, this is more important._” A pause. “_You’re more important, Matty. I don’t… tell you that often enough, how important you are to me. Fuck, sorry, that’s not—you wanna hear about the wizard._ _He’s a total dick, Matt, and quite probably a murderer to boot…_”

It’s not at all what he wants to hear right now. Another account of Michaela taking on more than she can handle, all without bringing anyone else into the fold _again_. And this time she had the opportunity to call one of them, _any of them_ (it didn’t have to be him), and she didn’t take it. She admits she thought about it, way back at the beginning of the night, thought about contacting him because something felt… off, and he has to resist the urge to ask her why she _didn’t_. There’s no point in turning this into a fight – more importantly, he doesn’t _want _a fight with her.

“You’re with SHIELD right now?” he asks after the silence between has stretched too thin.

She sighs, clearly unhappy about her current circumstances. He can’t blame her, either; she complained for a solid week about Coulson and his secretive bullshit after what happened before. Though she is fond of Skye, at least, and Michaela says she’s come along for this visit, plus another guy that wasn’t there last time. The new guy hasn’t spoken to her yet, so it’s up in the air whether he’s friend or foe.

“_They got me out of being arrested, Matty, or else I’d have run out on them already. SHIELD… maybe they really are doing good, but I don’t wanna be a part of their… squad, or whatever. I don’t even know what they want from me._”

“You mentioned a debrief…”

“_I mean, sure, yeah, they want me to explain what the fuck went down tonight, and I’ll do that, _gladly_, because clearly I am not a match for District 1’s darling wizard boy, but. SHIELD wouldn’t have stepped in if that’s all they wanted, ya know?_”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. And you don’t trust them, with every reason not to.” Matt pauses, considers whether he should add the next part. _Fuck it_. “I can arrange a rescue, if you’re interested…?”

That startles a laugh out of her, and Matt smiles, pleased he can do that much for her. Given that it’s all he can do, it’s almost pathetic, but. Matt’ll take what he can get here.

“_You are aware they’ve one hundred percent tapped my phone, right? And they’re also less than a dozen feet away from me?_”

“You say that like it matters.”

Michaela snorts, and there’s the _clap _of her bringing a hand to her mouth. Another win. “_Gonna round up the vigilante buddies and stage a jailbreak, Matty?_”

“If you want me to? Of course.”

“_…I… shit, Matt, the things you say… crying’s not an option for me at the moment, buddy._”

“I’m not trying to make you cry, Michaela. I’m giving you options.”

One in particular he wants her to take, if he’s being honest with himself. He hasn’t a clue as to how he’d manage it, but he’d coerce the others into coming (aside from Spider-Man, who would, quite literally, jump at the chance to help Michaela) and they’d storm SHIELD’s headquarters. They could do it, he’s pretty sure – they might all have files somewhere in the bowels of SHIELD’s databases, but desperation makes people unpredictable.

“_Thank you for that. Honestly. But I can’t ask you to do that. I’m—_”

“You’re worth the risk, Michaela, and I’ll tell you that as many times as I have to.”

“_Aw, fuck, Murdock, I swear to god… Fuck, fuck, just. Okay, no rescue mission, I’m fine, everything’s fine, they’ll let me leave eventually. There is something I gotta ask you to do, though._”

“What is it?”

“_There’s… most likely a woman outside my apartment?_”

It’s times like these where Matt wishes, just a little, that there was a chance he didn’t hear that correctly. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“_The woman I was with, the one who got kidnapped. I told her to, uh. To head to my apartment? And that you’d take care of her?_”

“You didn’t let the police process her?”

“_She was gone when they got here! And also, FYI, I was a little busy being _arrested_! Maybe they did pick her up, I don’t know, but check for me, please. That woman is my responsibility, I need to know she’s alright after this shitshow of an evening_.”

Matt counts to ten in his head, eyes squeezed shut even though it doesn’t make much of a difference to him. He’s not going to deny her this – she could have asked for almost anything right now and he’d do his damnedest to get it done, because he is that… well. He’s worried and she’s, shit, she’s as important to him as he apparently is to her.

He says he’ll do it and she thanks him again, breathless suddenly, her pulse thudding in her wrist. The voices in the background tick up in volume and Matt isn’t listening to them, precisely, still tuned in to Michaela, but he gets the gist of what they’re saying. Time’s up – wheels up in five.

Goddammit, Michaela. They’re not even going to be in the _city_, and she expects him to… what? Carry on like everything’s normal?

Which he’ll do, of course, because she asked him to.

_One day I’ll graduate from middle school_, he thinks wryly, tucking his phone away.

Matt can get to Michaela’s apartment in under twenty minutes, and he can take the faster route now that he won’t be _as _out of his mind with worry. Hopefully this woman won’t have left before then – he doesn’t know anything about her that would assist in tracking her down, Michaela barely even gave him a description he could have Foggy or Karen search for online. Not that that’ll stop him, in any case, but it’d be nice to start with a leg up rather than both hands tied behind his back.

He and Michaela are really due for a talk when she gets back from SHIELD, and he’s thinking he won’t be able to avoid this time around.


	18. chapter fifteen | turns out michaela's knocked-off more than one person's powers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The SHIELD chapter, otherwise known as that exciting time where Michaela's not on the verge of death and also gets to do some intensive training with a cute blond to better her powers! Absolutely nothing could go wrong here! 
> 
> (We'll save that for when she gets back to New York)

A week later and Michaela, without exaggeration, wants to throw herself out the nearest window.

The problem with that (aside from the obvious), is that half the time she’s twenty-thousand feet in the air, aboard the _Bus_, Coulson’s charmingly named heavy-duty aircraft in which all of his best-loved agents are housed. Or something along those lines. Skye gave her the run-down at some point, but frankly, Michaela tuned out around minute three, just a little bit consumed with all the _other _shit on her mind.

Lincoln, though. Lincoln’s been a godsend.

Michaela would never say she’s happy to see anyone from SHIELD (Skye’s great, she is, but Michaela’s not a fan of her affiliations even now) – but technically Lincoln’s not a part of SHIELD. Or he’s only a part-timer? Maybe it’s a case-by-case basis, or. Ugh. Whichever it is, she’s able to separate him from SHIELD’s sorta-sinister vibes and she’s grateful for that, seeing as she’s had to see him for about twelve hours a day for the last seven days.

Case in point:

“Better, that’s better,” Lincoln says, grinning at her from across the training room, his hands alight with familiar blue sparks. The slow-claps he’s giving her shed those sparks onto the floor, where they dissipate harmlessly against the specially-designed mat they’re practicing on.

Better, sure. He’s placating her, but _sure_. Heaving a sigh, Michaela flips onto her back where she’s lying on the mat and throws her arms out, letting them smack satisfyingly into the cushy material. She’s bruised and battered, and little bit burnt, and Lincoln doesn’t have a scratch on him. Typical. Yeah, the man’s got years of experience on her and a _masterful _control of his powers, but. She thought she was… less shitty than this, and it’s kind of mortifying to be shown so explicitly that she’s nothing more than a novice when it comes to her abilities.

She doesn’t even deserve to be called _Knock-Off _Thor at this point – her name doesn’t belong in the same sentence as Thor’s, let alone when it’s being used as an epitaph. Knock-Off Thor, fuck, she might as well go by _Off-Brand Toaster Oven _for the rest of her superhero career. 

Her eyes rove mindlessly across the ceiling as she considers whether or not she’s ready to publicly announce a name change. Every breath aches in her chest, pressing sharply into her ribs on every ragged exhale. She’s exhausted, strung out from throwing around so much of her energy _daily_. Her stamina’s been a weakness of her since the early days of her vigilantism, and it’s almost gotten her killed fairly recently, so she knows this is training she can’t skip out on. But goddamn it might actually kill her at this rate.

A hand appears above her, sans the fireworks. Michaela groans, biting off the end of it because _Lincoln doesn’t need to hear her complaining_, then claps her hand to his and lets him haul her to her feet. He grins, boyish, and Michaela does not deserve this bullshit. Why has every superpowered guy she’s met in the last six months been so _attractive_? Lincoln’s no Star-Spangled Man, but he’s tall and blond and sweet, and he’s so damn _smiley _while they’re attempting to kick each other’s asses. Michaela can’t not like him, and it’d be more frustrating if he weren’t the only thing on this plane-slash-rocket-fuckery that doesn’t drive her up the fucking wall.

“I’m still… _fizzling out_,” she says, fluttering her hands to demonstrate. She very much wishes she had literally any other words to describe the fact that every time she tries to maintain a constant, steady stream of electricity like Lincoln manages to do, it’s like, like she’s got two dying sparklers in her hands. Which is about as lame as she’s making it sound. “It’s controlled bursts or bust, and that is, uh, not the kinda progress I thought I’d be making by this point.”

“It’s been a week,” Lincoln reminds her kindly, and that’s true, yeah, and she’s the last person you’d call an overachiever, but. What it really boils down to is this: the longer she’s _here_, whipping her inexperienced ass into shape, the longer she’s away from New York and—well. Not having convenient access to the Spider-Kid is both boring and troubling. That kid jumps into danger like he’s got a death wish and her blood pressure isn’t a fan of leaving him to his own devices for so long.

And then there’s Matt.

Coulson didn’t confiscate her phone for the duration of her stay here, though he did make it a point to remind her that revealing any of SHIELD’s secrets is tantamount to committing treason, so. She hasn’t been making a habit of texting anyone, except to tell Spidey that she is a) not dead and b) not currently undergoing torture in a secret government facility. He’s been weirdly adamant about that one – that and asking if she’s holed up in Area 51, and if so, can she get a selfie with one of the – and this was his wording – _inmates_?

The concern is twofold with that kid.

Matt, though. She’s gotten to call him exactly once during this impromptu Inhuman boot camp, and she already knows she’s in deep shit with him once she gets back. Matt doesn’t get angry all that often, at least not as long as she’s known him; he usually puts his lawyerly skills to good use and navigates his way through arguments with pinpoint accuracy. And he’s so _careful _with how he expresses himself, always, cutting himself off from snapping or cracking a joke to lighten his own mood. But when she spoke to him last… he’s definitely not a happy camper, though it’s hard to know what he’s pissed at, her or the situation in general.

Her faulty brain likes to remind her in the middle of the night that this is the _second time _she’s bailed on him for SHIELD, and that Matt has every right to want to dump her for a better superhero sidekick-slash-partner-slash-friend. Like Jessica Jones. Jones probably doesn’t disappear for days on end to parley with a not-so-secret, possibly defunct government agency. Hell, Spidey is more reliable than she is, and he has a _curfew_!

She’s flakier than the high schooler. That stings, it really does.

On the more logical end of things, she knows Matt won’t hate her for this. Probably. She’s not ditching him on purpose, or even specifically ditching _him_. It’s just. Unfortunate, you know, that this is the situation she’s found herself in, not once but twice, with Matt taking a lot of the fallout on his own head. Blackout gets shit-talked in the papers when she’s not spotted for a week (which is no different from when she’s out there every night, but she’s not bitter about that, no sir, not Michaela, that’d be _petty_), but Matt – Daredevil – ends up picking up her slack, putting himself more at risk, more than well aware that the police have taken to staking out vigilantes for kicks.

Speaking of Matt picking up her slack, she did get him to tell her that he found Grace that night, huddled outside Michaela’s apartment building. He’s taking care of her, he says, figuring out a safe space for her where hopefully she won’t be on the wizard’s radar. Michaela didn’t have the words to thank him then, and she hasn’t come up with anything better in the meantime. Fuck, she owes Matt so much, how is she ever going to make this up to him—

Faint pressure at her shoulder startles her out of her thoughts, and there’s Lincoln, brows furrowed and mouth quirked into a concerned frown. His hand squeezes her shoulder again, as if confirming she’s back with him, and she offers up a sheepish smile.

“You good?” he asks, lowering his voice a little. She’s not naïve; she’s aware SHIELD’s got this room wired for audio and video, tracking their training sessions and possibly her intentions with Lincoln, which is a little stupid, she thinks, given that, at her current level, Lincoln could probably stop her heart with a well-placed bolt from across the room before she could even think to counter. Regardless, she appreciates his attempt at maintain her privacy, unlike _some people _she could name. “You’re a million miles away, Michaela. That’s not what I’d call good strategy.”

She huffs, unable to argue that point. And really, she’s not used to being so distracted, or, well. That’s not it, exactly. She’s used to being distracted when she’s anxious about something, used to having it eat away at her attention until she’s mostly doing things on autopilot (and therefore probably incorrectly). This is… different, somewhat. God, she’s not dissociating, is she? It’s never happened before, but that doesn’t mean anything.

In the end, she shrugs, gently dislodging Lincoln’s hand. She steps back, lifts her hands in a battle-ready stance that probably makes her look more than a little cartoonish, but it has the desired effect: Lincoln grins and backs up himself, hands sparking as he brings them up to mirror her, though he looks about eighty-percent less ridiculous, she’s sure.

“You think you’re okay to keep going?” he asks, nonetheless.

She bares her teeth, half grimace, half smile. “How far from New York are we right now?”

That gives him pause, and she watches his expression flicker, confusion fading into calculation. “About… two hundred miles, give or take? Why?”

This time the smile is more pronounced, though she’d wager it’s pretty humorless. “I’m not a million miles away, is all. Two hundred’s a lot less daunting.”

Realization hits him, and he chuckles, running a hand through his hair, mindful not to let things get too staticky. It’s something she forgets about a lot, honestly, and it’s led to some truly spectacular bad hair days at work that even Emmett doesn’t find flattering.

“Two hundred, huh? Let’s work on cutting that down to zero.”

“You any good at convincing Coulson to turn possible-assets loose?”

“That’s not in my wheelhouse, but Skye, on the other hand…”

“Skye. Okay, yeah, I can get Skye on board!”

“I’m glad you’re excited, Michaela, but you may wanna tone it down—aaaaaaand your gloves are on fire.”

“Fucking _shit_.”

____________________

“This… wizard—”

“Coulson, let me make something clear to you, ‘kay? You can call him an _enhanced individual _all you want, or _meta human_, or whatever strikes your fancy at the time, but he’s a wizard to me. Though it’s debatable whether he’s more _Harry Potter _or _Lord of the Rings_. Haven’t hashed that one out fully with Spider-Man yet.”

“Wizard is fine, Blackout. I’m just trying to understand exactly what went down in that warehouse. And, seeing as you might find it pertinent, the library you described to us the other night? There’s no signs of anything like that inside the building.”

“You think I’m lying?”

“No, I don’t. Agent May might be skeptical of your story, but Skye and the others made a convincing case for you. And more than that, I’m good at reading people. You told us your truth.”

“…but you think my truth isn’t exactly accurate.”

“It’s possible you were manipulated into seeing things that weren’t there, yes. It’s also possible this wizard can do more than just move people through space with his portals.”

“I… hadn’t considered that.”

“Sometimes an outside perspective is useful.”

“Uh-huh. What else do you need to know about what happened? I thought I talked Skye’s ear off that first night.”

“The woman you went in to rescue. We were able to identify her and we’re reasonably sure she’s another Inhuman.”

“I… definitely told you she was an Inhuman. Cato, the wizard _fucker_, basically said as much during the fight.”

“We like being thorough here, so we checked up on her hospital records to make sure she matched up with the others.”

“Can I assume you’re not going to tell me who the others are?”

“That information is on a need-to-know basis, and as of right now, you’re not on the list.”

“Right. Sure. Trust me to be out and about on my own as a vigilante, but don’t let me in on people who might be in the exact same situation I was, people I could be _helping_. Makes total sense.”

“We have our reasons, Blackout. Now, if you could tell us more about Grace’s abilities—”

“You are so fucking relentless, you know that?”

“It’s what makes me so good at my job.”

“…ugh, alright, so hers are pretty freaky…”

_____________________

“Lincoln, Lincoln, I have an idea! Potentially a dangerous one!”

Lincoln looks up from where he’s shrugging off his track jacket, his expression dubious but not totally against whatever it is she has to say. Michaela grins, rubbing her gloved hands together, feeling all the mad scientist vibes.

“What’s the idea?” he asks, cautious, sure, but his eyes are glinting with curiosity. He’s a little hooked already, she can tell; dude definitely enjoys practicing with someone whose powers are so similar to his own.

“You ever seen Avatar: The Last Airbender?”

“Nope. TV wasn’t exactly a priority for me, growing up.”

She winces. “Right, sorry, shoulda maybe guessed that one from what you’ve told me. Anyway, point is: lightning-bending.”

“You’re going to have to give me more details than that.”

“Okay, simple version? You shoot lightning at me and I try to redirect it by letting it pass through my body.”

His eyebrows lift at that. “That could kill you. Could completely fry your nervous system, or short out your heart.”

“…so that’s a no?”

“Not a _no_, but… let FitzSimmons run a few simulations first, test the waters. And we’ll start small if we get past that point. Okay?”

“You are so much more accommodating than Daredevil.”

“Skye’s been a bad influence, what can I say?”

_____________________

Michaela bites back a very unprofessional whimper as Simmons dabs at her burns, tsking all the while and muttering under her breath, something along the lines of _how could Coulson authorize something like this _and _having powers doesn’t make a person invincible!_ Michaela would say something, but, eh, Simmons isn’t wrong. The lightning-bender training has not been… overly productive, unless in this case productive means Michaela walks away from every session missing a layer or two of skin. Because if you’re going by _that _definition, then Michaela is _golden_.

Her palms have taken the brunt of it, even with her new specially designed gloves dispersing the electricity that hits them into something a little more manageable. Lincoln’s pinpoint accuracy means he only misses when she deliberately dodges, and since she’s trying _not _to do that, she takes more of his bolts than not. The skin of her palms is burnt and blistered and overall unpleasant to both feel and look at, and Skye has expressed her opinion about it on more than once occasion. Mostly that she thinks Michaela’s an idiot, which is nothing new.

And yet, she doesn’t want to stop.

She’s in pain, yeah, and it’s made that much worse by shocking the nerves of her hands into over-sensitivity, but. She wants this, she wants to prove that she can _im_prove. Be more than what she’s been this whole time. Maybe have a trick up her sleeve for the next time she and the wizard have a showdown. She also wants something to show for her time her, so she feels at least a _smidge _less guilty when she eventually makes it back to New York and has to face the consequences of her unintended trip.

Not that Matt’s going to be impressed with her or anything. She has a feeling he’s going to call her dumbassery into question and then silently judge her for a while. Could be worse. Probably.

While she’s been musing, Simmons seems to have finished patching her up, and Michaela glances over to her when she clears her throat pointedly. Simmons – Jemma, but everyone refers to her as one half of FitzSimmons, so Michaela’s gotten into the habit of last-naming her – stands with her hands on her hips, disposable gloves disposed of, her face pinched with an emotion that Michaela can only guess at. Annoyance, maybe, for wasting her time with her superficial injuries? Michaela’s pretty sure Simmons has like, infinitely more important things to be doing than tending to her (more or less) self-imposed wounds.

So she’s kind of surprised when Simmons says, “_Please_ be more careful, Blackout. You don’t want to overdo it and risk not being able to use your powers properly.”

Michaela blinks. She subtly flexes her hands, hissing slightly at the burn of her skin stretching; it’s better than it was before, though, now that Simmons has applied some sort of burn cream and wrapped them neatly in gauze.

“Um,” she says, blinking again. “I’m… sorry?”

“Sorry? That’s—Oh, don’t be sorry on my account, I don’t mind doing this, and really, I’m more upset with Lincoln for not holding back with you, but that’s… neither here nor there. Just. Go easier on yourself, yes? You won’t get anywhere if you’re always laid up in the infirmary.”

She has a point, and a solid one at that. And she’s on a tight schedule now that she’s gotten Skye to get Coulson to agree that they’re making their way back to New York in the next couple days. Coulson’s gotten whatever information he wanted from her (with the assistance of the impressively terrifying Agent May) and has no real qualms about letting her loose in the city again, so long as she promises to keep them updated on the wizard situation.

They have eyes in New York but not as many as they’d like, and they’re having a hard time tracking his energy signature, or… something else science-fiction-y that she only half understood. So she’s essentially another agent (without all the perks, apparently), feeding them intel when she gets it. She’d mind more about them having a direct line to her if it didn’t also give her a resource for when she runs into other Inhumans. Skye’s going to be their go-between since she’s made the best impression on Michaela (and Lincoln is still, sadly, only a part-timer), so it won’t be all terrible, at least.

Anyway, all that to say, Michaela doesn’t have much more time with Lincoln to work on her powers. So, Simmons is right; the less time she’s nursing her wounds, the better.

Mustering up an approximation of a grateful smile, Michaela glances back at Simmons. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, really, for doing all this for me. I know we’re not teammates or anything—”

“You’re a good person, Michaela. That’s more than enough reason for me to help you.”

Michaela’s blushing, fuck, this needs to stop being her default reaction to pretty people being nice to her. At least it’s not that common of an occurrence. “You seem… way too nice to be a SHIELD agent. Or, I dunno, a government agent, anyway.”

Simmons smiles, ducking her head as she sets about putting her supplies away in one of the glass cupboards lining the wall. “It’s true some others in my professions can be… a tad too aggressive. But I think overall we’re a good bunch, if you get to know us.”

Michaela can’t say she’s thrilled about the time she’s had to spend here on the Bus, mostly because of the circumstances that led her being here at all, but. She likes Simmons, and Skye, and Lincoln, and while May scares the shit out of her she’s someone Michaela admires a helluva lot. Fitz she doesn’t know as well, or the other members of Coulson’s team, but she thinks Simmons is right about this, too. Coulson is an ass, she’s not changing her initial assessment of him, but, well. He’s grown on her a little. He’s not _evil _or anything, just. Not someone she’d really consider getting any closer to. She could’ve done a lot worse with her first brush with SHIELD – she could’ve met someone before Cap came in and cut Hydra out at the root.

Yikes. That’s not a thought she wants to entertain _at fucking all_.

“I’ll take your word for it,” is what she settles on saying to Simmons, hopping down from the bed and carefully stuffing her hands into the pockets of her SHIELD-issued hoodie. “But really, thank you. I wouldn’t know what to do with these” – she fists her hands and pulls the hoodie taut around them to draw Simmons’ attention to them – “so I’m… ya know, glad you were here so I didn’t destroy my hands.”

“Try not to do that with Lincoln and we’ll call it even?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Simmons.”

______________________

Naturally, Michaela nearly kills herself the next time she and Lincoln go at it.

But it’s worth it! Totally, one hundred percent worth it, because at the end of her last day with SHIELD, she’s standing in the modified training room, exhausted down to the marrow of her bones, bleeding from several scrapes and bruised from head to toe, staring wide-eyed at the charred patch on the wall directly opposite her.

Her hands are still _smoking_, Christ, the gloves blackened but mostly intact, her skin all along her arms tingling and flush with goosebumps. She’s not dead, she feels so fucking _alive_ actually, and more to the point, she got the electricity to go from Point A to Point B. Not her own electricity, oh no, _Lincoln’s _electricity.

She whips her head around, finding Lincoln across the room, staring at her. It takes a second, both of them silent and still apart from Michaela’s heaving chest and trembling limbs, but a slow, blinding smile spreads across his face.

“Holy shit,” she breathes, unable to staunch the smile pulling at her own mouth.

“Holy shit,” he agrees, laughing, “holy _shit_, you pulled it off!”

“Suck it, Azula!” Michaela whisper-shouts, punching the air because she is, as previously discussed, the biggest of nerds. “I think I almost had a heart attack but oh my _fucking God _it worked!”

She nearly throws herself at Lincoln when he walks closer, practically high from her far-fetched victory. He stumbles a little under the force of her hug but returns it easily, laughing with her. Michaela would be a little more inhibited with the touchy-touchy, but a) she’s _stoked _right now and needs to share that with someone, and b) she and Lincoln figured they’re in some way related, even if distantly, and hell if Michaela isn’t going to take advantage of having family around when she’s so damn excited.

She pulls back, her face flushed, her breathing still more than slightly erratic (perfectly in time with the wild beating of her heart, at least), just so _pleased _with the world in this moment.

“Fuck, _thank you_,” she says, “I couldn’t have asked for a better mentor.”

“I’m just glad I could help,” he says, still beaming, like he’s just as proud of her as she is of herself. “You did all the work, Michaela, you’re the one who got yourself this far. And in only a couple weeks? That’s an insane amount of improvement.”

“Desperation’s a great motivator. And coming in off a near-death experience doesn’t hurt, either.”

“Take the compliment, will you?”

“Can do, Lincoln, can do.”

She’s going to feel like death warmed over tomorrow (who’s she kidding, she’ll be _wishing _for death in about an hour), but she doesn’t even care right now. She _did that_. She’s officially a lightning-bender, which is, suffice it to say, one of her childhood dreams crossed off the list. What the fuck. What the _fuck_, her life is pure madness at this point and she’s _ecstatic _about it.

Plus, even better, she’s going home.

Michaela hasn’t felt this accomplished in years, and tomorrow she gets to tell people about it, people who she knows and cares about so fucking much, Spider-Child is going to literally pee himself in excitement. God, she can’t wait to get off this damn Bus and go back to her rat-trap of an apartment, sleep in her own bed, and probably short-circuit another one of her kitchen appliances. She gets to see Spider-Child in the flesh and—

Matt.

Yeah, that’s up there with sleeping in her own bed, getting to see Matt again. She hasn’t gone this long without physically interacting with him since Daredevil and Blackout first teamed up, and she’s missed him like she would a limb. At least, that’s the analogy she’s going with, seeing as she’s never lost a limb before. It applies. Probably. Maybe.

Whatever, her overworked brain can come up with something more appropriate when she’s not running on fumes and questionable energy drinks FitzSimmons plied her with.

For now, she’s content with grinning like a loon at Lincoln while he goes over everything else they’ve practiced, trying to ensure she keeps up with her training when she’s on her own. She will, she’ll do that for sure, but. Hell, she’s happy, and he can tell, so she doubts he’s upset he doesn’t have all of her attention at the moment.

Tomorrow. She just has to hold out until then.


	19. chapter sixteen | tension's brewing and it's not the sexy kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaela comes home. Someone pays her a visit. (It's probably not who you're expecting)

Her homecoming isn’t quite the affair it was the last time. There’s no stumbling into her apartment at ass-o’clock at night, no mystery intruder she’s more or less resigned to shocking back out the window. Instead, the sunlight’s warm on her back as she climbs the fire escape to her floor, her steps heavy, rattling the metal in a way that would normally have her anxiety-sweating but now barely registers.

She’s not strictly paying attention to what she’s doing, either, relying on muscle memory and whatever instinctual desire she has for hearth and home and a fucking roof over her head to get her into the apartment relatively unscathed. Eighty-percent of her attention is on the phone she’s fumbling with, typing out a mass text and then immediately back tracking because _how does one act casual about disappearing for two weeks_? What is she supposed to say? _Hey guys, I’m not dead! Good news, right? Well, thanks for not letting New York get nuked in my absence, keep up the good work! _

Well. That’s certainly a memorable first impression for Luke Cage, who she hasn’t actually met in person yet. And Jessica, if she responds at all, won’t give a shit one way or the other. The text is, admittedly, more for Spider-Child than it is anyone else, but she’d like to check in every once in a while, say hi, swap bad guy stories. Make sure the group gets to know each other well enough that if any of them are in life-threatening situations it might prompt them to, you know, _help_.

Clearly, she’s falling behind when it comes to that last bit of the criteria, but overall – no, she’s just failing on all counts, let’s be honest here.

Biting her lip, she glances up to make sure she’s getting off at the right landing (she is, thank god), then moves to rest her weight against the railing by her window. She taps contemplatively at her phone screen. Nothing is going to be perfect, so… what’s the harm in just shooting everyone a quick, vague message?

_Sorry for the radio silence everyone. Back in Hell’s Kitchen now. Heard from Daredevil you guys covered for me, and that’s much appreciated. Let me know if I can repay the favor. _

And _sent_. Her shoulders drop from where they’d been hitched up near her ears and she lets out a long, hissing breath. That’s one thing out of the way. Now she can… grovel to Matt. Yeah, that’ll be fun.

Michaela’s pulling up his contact when her phone chimes with an incoming message. From… Luke Cage? That’s, uh. New.

**Welcome home, Sparky **

Michael’s mouth twitches into a wry smile. Sparky. Real original.

**Next time you’re near Harlem you can take a crack at fixing the lighting in my apartment **

She has to laugh at that, raking her hair back from her face. She doesn’t know Luke, never met him despite Matt handing off his number after he agreed to be a part of their little team. But she’s seen him on the news and she knows he’s a good guy, doing what he can – what only _he _can do – to protect the neighborhood he loves. He’s a lot like Matt that way; she figures they’d get along well enough if they ever got to hanging around each other. Harlem isn’t _that _much of a journey, maybe one of these days she’ll drop by and greet the guy properly.

She sends back a random, mildly amused emoji and doesn’t wait for a response before she dials Matt’s number, painfully aware of how her courage is waning the longer she puts this off. She counts out her breaths as she listens to phone ring, her free hand wrapped tight around the railing, letting the bite of the iron ground her in the moment. The ringing finally cuts out and she’s closing her eyes, making a spit-second decision on how she wants to play this – when the automated voicemail message answers her instead of Matt.

Uh.

Michaela pulls the phone away from her ear, checking the time. _2:46_. Somehow it escaped her notice that it’s a Tuesday, midday, and that Matt have better things to do than sit around waiting for her to call. She could try Foggy, or Karen (both of whom “stole” her number from Matt, the dorks), but that feels like she’s forcing this conversation. Matt’s busy, it’s nothing new, he’ll get back to her when he has a chance. She can be patient – hell, he’s more than earned it from her, given the shit she’s put him through recently.

The _beep _startles her, and she curses under her breath, nearly dropping the damn thing in her haste to get it back to her ear. “Um, Matt, it’s—well, I’d say it’s good to hear your voice, but that’s not, uh. Shit. You’re probably in court, or with a client, or ignoring me, and hey, I wouldn’t blame you if that were the case. Just, um. When you feel like it, or have a free moment, could you call me back?”

Well, it’s not like she had any dignity left where Matt’s concerned. Her being pathetic isn’t going to shock him or anything. Still, somehow, she would rather have had that disaster of a conversation (one-sided as it was) in person. At least then she’d be able to see the judgement happening in real time and figure out just how deeply embedded in the shit she is.

Fuck, she wants to call again, leave a different message or maybe catch him at a slightly less awful time, just to say _hey _and also, realistically, cry. Oh, the crying’s going to happen no matter what, but it’s nice to have a mostly sympathetic audience when she’s on the verge of a mental breakdown these days.

No, no calling, that’s gonna come off as desperate. Probably. And Matt doesn’t want to deal with her theatrics while he’s working, so she’s not going to drop all this on him. They’ll talk eventually and until then she’ll just have to curl up on her bed and cover herself in about fifteen blankets. That’ll take the edge of her frayed nerves for sure.

She’s resigned to that taking up the better part of her afternoon, so it’s kind of hilarious how quickly she jumps to answer her phone when she hears it start blaring whatever generic ringtone she hasn’t bothered to change. Without checking the caller ID.

Rookie mistake, Michaela. Rookie mistake.

“_Blackout!_” is the first thing she hears down the line, effectively stopping her from the aforementioned breakdown, because that is, you know, not Matt.

“…Spidey?” she says, wrong-footed, her tongue thick and uncooperative in her mouth. Fuck, _fuck_, now is not the time for her shit.

“_Blackout, oh my god, I got your text! You’re alive! Okay I knew you were alive before, Daredevil let us all know, but you’re _alive _alive_. _No more radio silence!_”

Trust Spider-Child to only consider her _there _when she’s connected to the Internet, shitty though her tenement’s wi-fi may be. He’s Gen Z kid alight, which she’s known for months, yeah, but the confirmation is still validating, in a way.

“Yeah, hey,” she says, laughing a little in an effort to ease the tension, “sorry I was gone for as long as I was. It wasn’t my plan at all, Christ, I would’ve stuck around if I had any choice about any of that bullshit.”

“_Was it really_” – and Spider-Child lowers his voice, sounding like he’s cupped his hand around the mic of the phone so he’s _extra _sure no one’s hearing him – “_S-H-I-E-L-D again?_”

“You know, the NSA agents wiretapping our call can probably spell at _at least _a third-grade level, kid.”

“_Maybe they’re actually Jared, age 19_.”

“…I genuinely don’t think anyone else in our little vigilante club would get that reference. I don’t know if that makes you lucky or not that it’s me you said it to.”

“_That’s why you’re my favorite, Blackout!_” he laughs, and oh lord, he’s killing, her fucking heart is gonna give out at this rate. This kid is the sweetest, nerdiest little shit she’s ever met and goddamn does she love him like the brother she never had.

It takes her a second to swallow down whatever’s clogging up her throat, turning away from the phone just long enough to _not cry, Christ she’s a mess right now, maybe it’s better she’s not talking to Matt. _Then she says, with as much good humor as she can muster (there’s still that suspicious tint of hysteria to her voice but fuck she’s not in great shape at the moment and it shows), “You’re my favorite, too, kid. Just don’t tell Daredevil.”

He laughs again, bright and happy and vibrant, and she’s missed this, she really has. Two weeks without even the faintest whisper of a New York (even if it’s from Queens in this case) accent was too damn long. It makes her almost giddy (teary-eyed, but giddy) to have it back, to be _home_, with the people she cares about only a subway ride away.

The swell of emotion currently rising in her chest, pushing against her lungs and probably cutting off much-needed oxygen to her brain, is most likely why the next thing that comes out of her mouth is, “Okay, know what? I’m making a once in a lifetime offer. You wanna swing by Hell’s Kitchen and meet up face-to-face?”

There’s no response at first, and yeah, okay, she knows it’s a little early, he’s probably in school. Why he’d be calling her from school she doesn’t know, but she’s not expecting him to hop into his suit and be at her beck and call — fuck, did they get disconnected? It’s been a solid minute without any sounds on Spider-Man’s end and he’s not the type to leave her hanging. Metaphorically, anyway.

She checks the phone. Call hasn’t dropped as far as she can tell – the counter’s still ticking away, and yup, there’s the contact photo Spidey insisted on sending her, him all kitted out in his sweats and about a hundred feet in the air above Queens.

“Kid—”

Something – some_one_ – lets out what sounds like a victorious _whoop _of excitement (to which Michaela blinks, side-eyeing her phone), followed by a round of background shushing that has Spidey mumbling out an apology. She hears the too-loud screech of a chair against linoleum flooring, then more apologies from Spidey, the not-quite-a-slam of a door. Footsteps, hurried and loud, the slap of sneakers on – uh-huh, more linoleum. Such a distinctive, godawful flooring, she thinks, idly wondering what the fuck is going on.

Then Spidey’s back, sounding rushed and just a little breathless. “_I’m on my way! Don’t uh, don’t go anywhere, tell me where to meet you and I’ll be there in like, twenty minutes! No, fifteen, I can do fifteen—_”

“Wait, wait, wait, don’t _break _anything, okay – laws, speed limits, _bones_. Uh, buildings, other people, the _laws of physics_. I can wait twenty minutes, I’m not gonna disappear on you when I offered for you to come down. Take your time, Spidey. Take all the time, okay? _Safety first!_”

“_Yeahokaynopromises!_”

And he hangs up.

_This fucker_, Michaela thinks, staring in abject disbelief at her phone screen. She stares until it goes dark, kind of unable to process the last few minutes of her life. What did she just _do_?

Well, nothing to be done about. She’s unleashed this, she’s gonna have to deal with it. Before the inevitable crash landing, though, she has things to do, namely suiting up herself, because as much as it feels like a useless charade at this point, she is still keeping up an alter ego for the masses. Spider-Man included, despite her guilt over lying to him, even if it is technically by omission.

Sighing, Michaela stuffs her phone into her back pocket and moves over to her window, fitting her fingers under the pane and jerking it open. She’s mildly annoyed that Matt was right, and continues to be right, about the security of her home, because the locks here are basically toys for how useful they are. It’s beneficial to her now but good lord does she need to overhaul her apartment before someone legitimately breaks in and knifes her in her sleep to steal her nonexistent valuables.

After texting Spider-Man a location for their meet-up, she stows her spiffy new SHIELD-issued duffel in the closet by the door, then shuffles into the bathroom, shucking her clothes as goes. The shower’s lukewarm at best and has her teeth chattering once she’s finished scrubbing the past two weeks from her skin, but she feels a bit more centered, more settled in her own body, especially when she pulls on the backup costume she now keeps under her bed. The one she’d been wearing when SHIELD picked up was the copy they gave her in return for the last time they had an unexpected (on her part, anyway) meeting, and they’d offered to give her another one, brand-spanking-new and probably of a much higher quality than anything she can produce herself. But she turned them down for the same reason she refused to do more than have Skye act as a go-between for her and SHIELD: she wants nothing to do with them, and accepting their charity (or however you frame it) doesn’t exactly align with that.

The _super covert meeting spot _Michaela’s picked for today is literally the roof of her apartment complex. She’s at a point where subtlety doesn’t factor into her decisions anymore, and it’s not like she’s said or done anything to indicate she’s connected to the building. Spider-Man knows she’s based out of Hell’s Kitchen, but that’s all he knows – all any of them but Matt know, though she wouldn’t put it past Jessica to have done a little more research into her identity. She wouldn’t have had to go much deeper than the list of people who were hospitalized after the Terrigen Mist bomb went off. That would worry her, maybe should worry her – but again, she’s _tired_, and Jessica Jones maybe-possibly knowing who she is under the mask is, by far, not the end of the world for her.

She’s on the roof, busy braiding her still-damp hair over her shoulder, when Spider-Man comes careening into her field of vision, hitting the ground running and nearly tumbling head over heels in his haste to slow himself down. She watches, gaping under her mask, as he scrambles to right himself, his fucking _sneakers _skidding along the cement until he shoots out a web to stabilize himself, jerking himself upright.

To say she’s confused would be an understatement.

It’s recognizably Spider-Man – there’s the red mask with its absurd, bottle-cap like lenses, the hooded sweatshirt with the painstakingly-stitched spider emblem. His web-shooters (self-described) are visible at his wrists, silk-like thread dangling from where it’s caught slightly on his left ring finger. But – he’s wearing khakis. _Khakis_. Beige khakis, even, no fun colors, and his sneakers are worn and patchy in places, like he’s had to fix them instead of just tossing them out and getting new ones.

He’s also got a backpack looped over one shoulder. He really… rushed here from school.

Michaela’s flattered, but also a little bit mortified.

“Spidey,” she says, abandoning her braid as she stands and lifts her hands, placating without knowing exactly who needs it more. “Seriously, you could have like, taken another ten minutes to um. Change properly? Unless this is a new look you’re going for? ‘Cause if so… please ditch the khakis. I’m actually begging you, no more khakis. They don’t look good on _anyone_ and I’ve seen those pictures of Cap when he just got out of the ice. I know what I’m talking about.”

Spider-Man stills, ducking his head slightly. She thinks he’s looking himself over, as if he’s literally only now realizing that he missed out on a few crucial details of his costume on the way over. Something curse-adjacent (he says _heck_, she can _feel it_) escapes him and he crosses his arms over his chest (like that’s going to cover anything incriminating), shoulders tense and high, looking like he’s about point two seconds away from turtling into his hoodie and pretending he’s not available.

She cracks a smile despite herself, dropping her hands to her hips. “I’m happy to see you, too, Spidey,” she says, her voice warm.

Spider-Man straightens immediately, his stance still marginally uncomfortable, but he comes closer nonetheless. “I’m not sorry about the speeding.”

“Can you at least apologize for the khakis?”

“My—They were a _gift_!”

Michaela snorts. “That’s sweet of you. Just don’t incorporate them into your hero get-up and we won’t have any problems, ‘kay?”

“I think I can manage that, Blackout.”

“Good,” she grins, taking a step forward that brings her within hugging distance, which she takes full advantage of, throwing her arms around Spidey’s neck and squeezing him tight.

He gets with the program real quick, wrapping her up in his disproportionately-strong arms and giving as good as he gets with the hugging. He’s just a little taller than her, so she hooks her chin on his shoulder, letting herself acknowledge that he’s here, he’s fine, he didn’t get himself blown up in her absence. Not that she’s his keeper, or even slightly responsible for him from a legal standpoint, but dammit, if anything happened to this kid she’d probably blackout half the city out of sheer outrage.

Thinking about it, there’s a strong chance Michaela has abandonment issues. Only like, the inverse of that. God, she really needs that therapist.

Drawing back, Michaela beams at Spidey, knowing full well he can’t see her expression beneath her mask and not giving one shit about the logistics. He’ll get the right impression, he’s perceptive like that. That’s about when she catches something in her peripheral -- the glint of sunlight off something flat and glossy. She only glances at it, curious, but then she has to do a double take.

That’s uh. That looks a whole lot like a school ID. And it’s sure as hell not _hers_.

Spidey’s talking already, going a mile a minute as usual, but she squats down to grab the ID, her heart sinking even before she’s registered the name.

Michaela stares at the ID, flicks her eyes back up to Spidey, who has, reasonably, shut up in the face of her blatantly ignoring him. He’s watching her now, head cocked. She looks at him, back down at the ID, back at him. Then she fixates on the ID for what’s probably a solid thirty seconds that feels like three or four eons.

_Peter Parker_. Freshman. Midtown Science High School.

Ah, fuck.

He’s a cute kid. Baby-faced, a mop of brown hair that is definitely over-brushed in this low-quality photo. His smile’s sort of cringey, like the photographer caught him in the middle of adjusting his expression, eyes wide behind a pair of comically thick prescription glasses. She can just see the plaid-shirt-sweater combo he’s got going on, too, and _wow_, this kid has even worse style than she did in high school.

Fuck, he’s young. Fifteen at the oldest. And he’s _fighting crime_, what the _fuck_, who okayed this? Does his family just. Not notice him out webbing his way through the high-rises in Queens? She’s heard him trying to lie, there’s no way he’d be able to keep up this charade for—_god_, he’s been doing this longer than she has! What, she reiterates, _the fuck_?

“Um.”

What’s she supposed to say? _Whoops_, you dropped this, Spidey, better be more careful with this incredibly compromising photo ID while you’re dressed up as a vigilante superhero?

Turns out she doesn’t have to say anything, because it apparently finally dawns on the kid that she’s holding something she should one hundred percent not have access to, and in the next second it’s being whipped out of her hands by one of his handy webs. She lifts her head to look at him.

“Uh—”

“_Shit_, that’s not mine!” he says, even while he’s stuffing the ID into his pants pocket. Smooth, though she can’t say she’d be handling this any better than he is. Hell, she _didn’t _handle it better; she flipped the fuck out on Daredevil, although she gives herself a pass for that one when it sneaks up on her, because the man straight up lied about knowing her secret identity. She’s forgiven him, mostly, but she was justified in being royally pissed at him at the time. “That’s, that’s Peter, he’s my friend, he’s—I must’ve grabbed his pants by mistake—_shit_—”

Oh. Oh, no, he’s freaking out. Really freaking out. Like, panic attack levels of freaking out. His breaths are coming quick and sharp, and he has his hand curled tight around the fabric over his heart, and he’s, ugh, he’s _shaking_. Michaela scrambles to her feet and hesitates only a heartbeat before she takes him gently by the shoulders, pulling him closer but not flush against her. She doesn’t want to crowd him but for her, proximity to another person, preferably one who has their shit together, helps immensely in terms of calming her down. And, well, she’s the closest thing he has right not to a functional, level-headed individual.

“Kid, kid, _breathe_, okay? You’re fine, you are _alright_. Nothing has changed, nothing at all. You’re still Spider-Child to me. And you know me, yeah? You know I would never fucking _ever _let this slip to anyone else. It stays right here, between you and me. Won’t leave this rooftop, I swear, not if you don’t want it to. You’re safe, your family is gonna stay safe, or anyone else you’re protecting by wearing that mask of yours.”

She just. Keeps talking. Keeps up the reassuring babble, whatever she can think of off the top of her head, whatever sounds like it might be what he needs to hear in the moment. She doesn’t remember what Matt said to her that night, what exactly brought her back to herself and out of the anxiety spiral she’d fallen into, but she tries to recreate the feeling of it if not the wording.

You’d think she’d be a pro at this, having talked herself down from a frankly worrying number of attacks over the years, but no, she’s as useless as ever when it comes to this. Unsurprising, but more than a little disappointing, she’s not gonna lie.

Eventually, she gets him breathing a little easier, and he slumps in her hold, pitching forward until his forehead is resting against her shoulder. This isn’t her fault, but try telling her guilt complex that. Michaela grimaces, mostly to herself, and puts a hopefully-comforting hand at the back of Spidey’s head, the other reflexively clenching into a fist at her side before she consciously relaxes it.

“You with me?” she asks, soft, reminded yet again of how amazing Matt is it at this. The memory of the last time he brought her down from an attack stings more than it should; not the sense-memory of the attack itself, but the reminder that he’s not here with her, that they haven’t _talked _in weeks. She misses him, but that’s not really what’s important at the moment.

Spidey’s voice is high and reedy when he answers with a quiet _yeah_, but the fact that he’s answered at all is a win in her book. He tenses slightly, maybe bracing himself, then he pulls back, though he turns his head away from her, and good lord, he’s going to work himself up into another attack if he doesn’t give himself a break.

This is not how she pictured her day going. Not that she had much planned, but.

Oh, well. What’s another person being in on her secret?

Before she can talk herself out of it, Michaela pushes her goggles onto the crown of her head and tugs down her mask, and, while Spidey whips his head around to face her with a speed that would in any other situation be absolutely freaky, she sticks out her hand and says, “Michaela King. Technically I'm a sophomore at Pratt, but I'm kind of late to the whole college thing, ya know? What else? Oh, I’m twenty-five, though I’ve been told I have the dark circles and posture of a woman three times my age, which was not in any way a compliment, but.” She shrugs. “Fun fact about me, I guess. Anyway, nice to meet you, Peter Parker.”

He takes her hand on what seems like autopilot, shaking once, twice, before politely letting go and then just. Stands there, hand hovering in the air between her own and his side, almost like he’s glitching, frozen; no amount of key-smashing is going to un-stick him, so she settles for upping the wattage of her friendliest smile and shrugging again, trying to project an air of nonchalance she absolutely does not feel.

She’s outed herself – or been outed – to a grand total of… what? Nine people? When you factor in everyone she’s met from SHIELD, at least. Peter Parker makes ten. And frankly, as much as she loathes giving up this part of her—well, what’s essentially the superhero equivalent of a security blanket, this is the least anxious she’s felt about it. Even with Captain America and his mystery friend, there was that element of suspense, where she didn’t quite know how she was going to come out of things on the other side. But this? This is nothing – she knows Spider-Man, she’s making this choice. He’s not the kind of guy to take that for granted.

“_Oh my god_,” Peter Parker breathes, snatching his own mask and tucking it hastily into the pocket of his sweatshirt. And yup – that’s him, a smidgeon more harried than his ID photo, maybe, but that’s to be expected. “Oh my god, oh my god, you’re—”

“Michaela,” she finishes, pointedly, her grin curling into crooked territory. “I think we’ve hit that friendship level where we unlock each other’s secret identities, yeah? We’ve sure as hell racked up enough experience points for it.”

“I—yeah,” he says, more a gasp than a word, but she’ll take it. It’s progress from just a few minutes ago. “Yeah, that’s… that’s perfect. It’s, um. It’s really nice to meet you, too, Michaela King.”

“Awesome. Now that we’ve gotten _that _out of the way…” Michaela makes a grand, sweeping gesture towards the ledge of the roof, purposefully overdramatic, and score – it gets something of a laugh out of Peter. “Let’s get back to catching up. What’s new on Spider-Man’s Greatest Hits?”

_______________

A couple hours after she’s sent Peter home (with the promise that he’d text her as soon as he made it back to his Aunt May, yeah, they got into the tragic backstories, too, it’s been a productive day), Michaela’s lying in bed, curled in on herself and forlornly staring at her phone screen. She taps it frustratedly whenever it starts to dim, willing the damn thing to ring.

Matt hasn’t called her back.

It’s not. It’s not a big deal, okay, she knows that, she’s not trying to make it into something it’s not. He’s busy, he got distracted, Foggy stole his phone – there’s a hundred reasons he hasn’t answered her. She just, she can’t shake the thought that he’s mad at her, and. She can’t fault him for it if that’s the case, because if their roles were reversed she’d be furious at him for up and disappearing on her _twice_. Even if she wasn’t quite as mysterious about it this time around, she still fucked off with SHIELD _again _and left Matt to take care of the fallout. That’s not very cool of her.

He’s got every right to be giving her the cold shoulder, or whatever this is, but she really, really wishes he wouldn’t.

Sighing, she tosses her phone further down the bed and rolls onto her back, throwing an arm across her eyes, laying the other across her stomach. She’s back to counting out her breaths, in and out, in and out, doing her level best to tamp down the bubble of anxiety that’s been building in her chest all day. Matt not calling her isn’t worth suffocating herself via hyperventilating. It’s just not, and he wouldn’t even want that from her, he’d—

She squeezes her eyes shut, grits her teeth. Nope, thinking about him in any capacity isn’t good for her heart right now. Matt’ll call or he won’t, end of story. Nothing she can do about it, aside from spam his phone, which is. Not ideal. And again, there’s Foggy and Karen, but that feels too much like she’s toeing the line of… something. The trust he’s shown her, maybe. Her own sanity, more likely.

If she’s honest with herself, she’d half expected him to come crawling in through her window again once she sent that text out. But, well, that wasn’t going to happen for a few reasons, chief among them the fact that Matt knows to take the stairs these days when he’s visiting. That’s to say she wasn’t _hoping _a little, but hope’s always been flimsy for her, even during her so-called _good years_.

Michaela breathes in for a count of four, holds it for seven, breathes out for eight. Rinse and repeat until she’s less jittery, less… just _less_. It’s Matt. She knows him the same way she knows Peter, knows him even better, in fact. He’ll call. And in the meantime, she’ll probably write out a fifteen-page apology letter to him for all the shit she’s put him through recently. It’s the absolute least she can do, really.

They just need to talk, she thinks. Air a few things out. Then, well. Then hopefully everything can go back to how it was before.

That’s all she wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who's read this can probably tell just how much I love and appreciate Matt Murdock, but if anyone y'all think for one second that Michaela and Peter aren't my favorite relationship of this story... well, you know better now lmao


	20. interlude iii | this girl takes self-care to a whole new level and michaela nearly loses her lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frankly, the author doesn't know when this takes place, but damn if she isn't she going to post it anyway.

The smoke is thick in the air as Michaela blinks back to awareness. She’s laid out on her side, one leg hitched up under her arm, the other splayed out at an awkward angle. Dirt and grit bite into the cheek she’s got shoved into the asphalt, scraping over the hands she’s slowly trying to get under herself. Her ears are ringing, the sounds around her distorted and muffled, although — if she’s remembering things right — she can make a pretty well-educated guess as to what she _would _be hearing if her ears were working at full capacity. As Michaela shakily rolls onto her knees, hands braced against the ground, she has a moment of _what the fuck am I doing here _that’s almost overwhelming. 

Manhattan. She’s in Manhattan, for some godforsaken reason, so far outside her home turf that she’s basically trespassing at this point. And for what? The Avengers have this handled, don’t they?

The explosion that rocks the ground beneath her, accompanied by the furious roar of what she presumes to be the large green rage monster employed by the Avengers and the _crash _shattering glass, does not seem to support that idea.

Groaning, Michaela digs her teeth into the inside of her cheek, suppressing a scream as she leverages herself upright onto her feet. Nothing’s broken, she thinks, though every inch of her skin aches with the forewarning of deep-black bruises and when she takes a step forward her ankle threatens to roll and snap like a twig, so. Baby steps. She blinks again, breathing shallowly to avoid sucking down a lungful of smoke. The street’s wrecked — chunks gouged out from the road, overturned cars stuck like turtles on the sidewalks, lamp posts ripped out by the roots and carelessly tossed aside. And people, dozens of people running for cover; more precisely, they’re running through the aftermath of the latest strike from who-the-fuck-ever the Avengers are fighting, probably hopeful that since this area is already ruined the villain won’t be making a repeat appearance. 

For their sakes, more than her own, Michaela hopes they’re right in that assumption.

But, fuck, Michaela is here for a reason. A flimsy reason, in hindsight, but one she has no desire to abandon now that she’s somewhat recovered her wits. The Avengers can’t be focused on civilians every second of the battle (something that became startling clear to her the last time she watched news footage of the Avengers in action). It’s not their fault, honestly it isn’t; they’re stretched thin as it is already with the bad guy (or gal, it’s not like Michaela got a good look at them earlier), and it’s more important that they neutralize the threat altogether, so that the carnage doesn’t spread to engulf the entire city.

It didn’t take much convincing to get the rest of her merry band of vigilantes to agree with her, and well, here they are.

“Blackout!”

Michaela lurches to the side, backing herself against the rust-pitted door of a half-burnt car so that her wobbly legs won’t be as obvious. Spider-Man drops down in front of her, letting go of his web and freeing both hands to hover anxiously over Michaela’s — probably everything, if she’s taking a shot at honesty today. She knows her mask is partially ripped, feels the warm, oozing blood trickling down from her nose and over her upper lip. The cut in her cheek is gonna need to be flushed out as soon as possible, given the dust and debris it must have collected while she was on the ground. And, oh this is just _dandy_, one of the lenses of her goggles is cracked. She can still see through it but it’s like there’s a jagged line ripping through reality. Which. Who the fuck knows, maybe that’s exactly what today’s villain aims to do. Again, she didn’t glean too much from them before she set herself on civilian duty and left the big threat to the Avengers.

“Hey, Spidey,” she says weakly, mustering something of a grin despite the pain that lances through her injured cheek at the stretch of her facial muscles. “Aren’t you supposed to be like, three streets west of here?”

Clenching his fists for a moment, he finally seems to come to some internal decision, because then he’s lightly gripping her shoulders, crouching a little to get a better look at the damage. She’d wave him off, but what’s the point? It’s nice to take a breather and have a friend fret over her. She should do it more often.

“Jesus, Blackout, did you get thrown by that last explosion?”

She winces through a shrug. “More or less. I think…” The thoughts slide slow and languid across the surface of her mind, forcing her to take her time plucking out each one individually to come close to some kind of coherency. Another blink. “I think it would’ve been worse, but I sort of” — she flutters her hands a bit, a stand in for the larger gesture she wants to do with her arms but can’t because she might bite off her tongue from the pain — “took the edge off the blast with, you know…” A frizzle of demonstrative sparks burst from her outstretched fingers. “Didn’t cushion my fall any, but. I lived.”

“Daredevil is gonna be _soooo _mad at you.”

“Like he has a fuckin’ leg to stand on. The Punisher almost murdered him, and don’t get me _started _on Kingpin! Plus! Plus! That fucker doesn’t have _powers_, he just has really good hearing or something! He’s even more vulnerable than I am!”

Spidey snorts, shaking his head. “He’s still got more training than you,” he says, low enough that Michaela knows she’s not supposed to hear it. Still, she rolls her eyes. _Training_. Michaela has _natural talent _— latent talent that took getting exposed to a weird mist to activate, but still _natural_. Daredevil can kiss her ass. 

“Speaking of that reckless idiot,” she says, once Spidey has convinced her to take cover under the concrete overhang of an apartment complex. “Have you seen him? Or Jones and Cage?”

“They were pretty close to the fighting last time I checked in on ‘em,” Spider-Man says absently as he’s shooting a line of webbing into his hand, letting it coil by itself. He’s still talking but his attention seems to be diverted to — oh, he’s making a makeshift bandage for her, for the nasty, nasty gash she’s got on her right shoulder. She needs to get this kid a thank-you gift. Comics, maybe. A _Harry Potter _disc-set. Iron Man gauntlets, those cute toys that make the signature sound of Stark’s repulsors (which he astonishingly didn’t figure out a way to copyright) and flash blue and white. Michaela realizes she’s getting off track and shakes her head, focusing back in on Spidey’s voice. “...didn’t look like they were too bad off, though. Mr. Cage was shielding civilians and herding them into subway tunnels with Ms. Jones.”

“Right,” Michaela says, bobbing her head as though she caught more than five seconds of that no doubt informative report. Spidey’s like a boy scout that way, she’s noticed; always prepared. At least, that’s the case when she’s asked him to give her status updates. It probably has something to do with his need to please. She’ll work on it with him, considering she does the same damn shit for Matt. Ugh. “You should, uh, you should go give them a hand, kid.”

Despite the mask he manages to give her quite the deadpan look. “Uh-huh. And what’re you gonna do, Blackout?”

She rolls her eyes again, unashamed. He can’t _see _her doing it through the goggles, and she doesn’t care if she’s giving off bullshit vibes, either. “I’m gonna, ya know, be here, maintaining the perimeter.”

There’s that judgmental eye-squint. “What perimeter?”

“The one I just mentally decided on. Now shoo! Respect your elder!”

“I don’t think that counts when you’re only—” Spidey freezes, tying off the web-bandage just a _smidge too tight_. “Uh, oh, that’s— Ha ha” — he actually says _ha ha_, what an adorable dumbass — “that’s funny, Blackout, you’re not _old_, don’t put yourself down…” 

Michaela smirks, fairly certain he can see it through the rips in her mask. “This secret identity thing does not come easy to you, kid, does it?” Patting him consolingly on the shoulder, she then shoves at him, _gently_, urging him to get a move on. “You’re good, I already know you’re a youngin’, so don’t worry too much. But you gotta follow orders, okay? I’ll be fine here, the fighting’s moved on. There’s people here I can help, Spidey, and you’ll be much more useful with the others.”

When he hesitates, unconvinced that she’ll remain in one piece if he takes off without her, she adds, “You trust me, right?”

That’s a low blow and she knows it, but it does the trick — Spidey straightens and nods, looking like he’s trying to pull off dutiful soldier and only managing, well, bright-eyed boy scout. She’ll take it, though, especially when he says, “Of course I trust you! Trust is like, the number one rule for vigilante buddies!”

She smiles. Now if only she could get Matt to give in that easily.

“Just, uh.” Spidey falters for a moment, wringing out his hands a little, glancing away and then back again. “Promise you’ll find me when this is all over?”

“Promise,” she says, with all the gravitas this declaration deserves. “You can trust that I won’t get my ass killed by a falling building. Also I’m gonna need a lift back to Hell’s Kitchen, kid, and I’m sure as hell not asking Daredevil for it.”

Laughing, Spider-Man steps back, and Michaela fights not to sag against the car while he’s still here to see the moment of weakness. “You said you wouldn’t swing with me again!”

“Desperate times, Spidey, desperate times. Now go, go, make sure Daredevil doesn’t pick a fight with the Hulk or something.”

“Aye, aye, Blackout!”

“That’s _Captain _Blackout to you!” she calls after him once he’s airborne and on his way. Then, taking a deep breath that makes her ribs hurt like a bitch, Michaela finally pushes away from the car and starts on civilian damage control.

Most people are more than happy to see a friendly face, even if she’s not quite what they’d been hoping for. She’s not an Avenger, clearly, and she’s not as reassuring a presence as say, Captain America or Iron Man. Or, hell, even Hawkeye would probably inspire more confidence in these people. But Michaela doesn’t let it get to her, just gently encourages able-bodied people she finds to seek shelter. She knows there are emergency medical stations popping up all over the area (which she wishes she’d asked Spidey to map out for her, but oh well, hindsight is twenty-twenty and she’s an idiot), so she suggests that people make for those, asking those fit enough to do it to carry the wounded she comes across.

This kind of thing — the situation is awful, no two ways about it. There are people dead and dying, and the city is one blast away from resembling the ruins of a long-lost civilization, but still, people surprise her with how quick they are to rally, to offer aid to their fellow members of humanity. Men and women carry other people’s children, or create emergency stretchers out of half-broken doors to lift the unconscious to safety. 

These villains may be the worst humanity has to offer, but they’re ironically good at bringing out the best of it.

Michaela’s making a last sweep of the street, searching for stragglers, when she hears it. Crying, the soft, hitched sounds of someone in _agony_ but unwilling to let themselves be loud about it. She’s heard it a lot since she started the whole hero thing, people muffling their cries because they’re terrified of being found by whoever brought the tears on in the first place. It’s a sound that lives in her nightmares, she knows it so well. So she doesn’t hesitate to follow it, weaving her way through the rubble of a destroyed storefront. She’s going to bite clean through her cheek at this point but that’s the least of her concerns as she scrambles over the hood of crashed car, trying to be as quiet as she can so as not to startle whoever she’s looking for.

Her breath catches when she finds her.

A kid, a _kid _kid, younger than Spidey for sure. Michaela thinks she must be ten at the oldest, her little yellow dress torn to ribbons, her stockings shot full of runs. No shoes that Michaela can see. _Fuck_, she thinks, easing herself down from the car, careful to move slow and telegraph her movements as best she can. The girl has her head tucked into her knees, her black hair draped lifelessly over her arms and legs. She whimpers when Michaela edges closer and Michaela curses to herself, frustrated; she’s not great with kids, and she’s never had to deal with them in crisis situations before. _Just… fuck. I should’ve had Spidey stay after all_.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” she murmurs, soft and sweet, though the thread of pain in her voice makes it something a little less gentle than the _coo _she’d been going for. “I promise, I’m not… My name is Michaela, okay? Michaela King. I’m here to help.” 

Is it stupid of her to give out her real name while she’s in full costume? Maybe, but _Blackout _is not the most… She doesn’t think it’s going to get this kid to feel safe, is all. Captain America, Iron Man, Thor, even, they all have their own sort of name brand guarantees, the kind that even kids can associate with goodness and safety and _heroes_. She’s not well-known even inside her own borough, not really. Daredevil gets more attention (and by that logic also gets more flak, but she digresses), people recognize him to a degree. They can trust him, trust the others, because they feel like they know them, just a little, just enough. Michaela doesn’t have that sort of notoriety, and her name, most likely, would just confuse this kid, and at worst scare her off. So stupid? Probably. She just doesn’t give a shit right now.

Michaela slowly lowers herself to the ground, checking each and every wince and whimper of her own because that’s not what this kid needs to see from her. She raises her hands, palms facing outward. After a momentary internal debate, she decides _fuck it _and pushes her goggles back onto her forehead, tugs down the sad remains of her mask.

“Can you tell me your name?” she asks, still speaking softly, rounding out every sharp edge of pain from her words. 

The girl stills, though she’s shaking, trembling arms clamped tight around her bony knees. Another hitching breath, then she lifts her head up just enough for Michaela to catch the golden-brown of her eyes.

She says… something. Mumbled as it is, Michaela has to lean forward to catch it, and even then she only gets the last syllable. Lee? Ly?

“Sorry, what was that?” Her mouth quirks into a self-deprecating smile. “I’m kinda old, I don’t hear as well as you do.”

The girl buries her head again, and Michaela think she’s somehow screwed this up even beyond her wildest imaginings, but then the girl shudders out another breath and fully lifts her head, her black hair spilling back onto her shoulders.

“Emily,” she whispers. “M-My name is Emily Na-Nakamura.”

It takes every ounce of strength Michaela has left in her not to just… turn to the side and vomit. Because today she has seen a great many terrible things, death chief among them, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of Emily Nakamura, dress ripped and face tear-streaked, sitting there with an arm across her knees and one of the bones in her forearm jutting out gruesomely from her pale, pale skin.

Michaela doesn’t think she breathes for a full minute, blinking rapidly to clear the tears from her eyes. Emily doesn’t _need _that from her. She needs her clear-headed and under control, calm and collected and willing to act accordingly, no matter what that means. 

Smiling is not the most natural thing in the world right this second, but Michaela forces her mouth into a nonthreatening shape, softens the look she’s giving Emily. “Alright, Emily, it’s nice to meet you. Your mom or dad around? I know I’m a stranger, and you’ve probably been taught not to talk to those, but um.” Fuck, where is she going with this? _I’m a _nice _stranger, don’t worry_. That what’s pedophiles probably say. “I’m… like the Avengers. Uh. You know Captain America?”

Emily nods slightly, careful not to move her arm. “My daddies say he’s _pretty_.”

Well, damn, her dads have good taste. “Right, yeah. Very pretty. I’m like him. I help people, like you. I can… I can bring you somewhere where some nice doctors will fix your arm, if that’s alright you? And then we can find your daddies. Would you wanna come with me?” 

If Emily says no… Michaela pats her jacket’s pocket, reassuring herself that her phone is both present and intact. If Emily says no, that’s fine, Michaela can text one of the others her location and have them bring the medical team to them. Maybe one of them can look for Emily’s dads, too. 

“Oh,” Emily says, sniffling. She looks down at her arm, like she’s seeing it for the first time. Fresh tears gather on her lashes, but before Michaela can make a move to comfort her (what move? She’d like to know the answer to that one herself, honestly), Emily lifts her other hand and it… starts glowing? A bright green cloud of light enshrouds her hand, and she wraps it around the opposite wrist, which makes her let out another cry of pain. But, even though she’s openly crying again and Michaela is two seconds away from _screaming_, Emily draws the hand up the length of her broken arm, spreads the swirling green light. And everywhere it touches…

Fuck, Michaela doesn’t know how to describe this. She’s looking straight at Emily, she’s not high or drunk or… this just doesn’t make _sense_. Because when the light dissipates, Emily’s arm is whole again. No break, no bruises, no scrapes. Smooth skin only. There isn’t even a smudge of dirt on her. Well, not on her right arm anyway — the rest of her remains unchanged, cuts and tears and all. But the right arm… it’s like it was never broken to begin with. The blood’s gone, the bone is back where it belongs. 

Michaela’s fucking speechless.

Emily, fortunately, doesn’t have that problem.

She wobbles to her feet, arms spread for balance, and she walks closer to Michaela, timid but not fearful.

“Can we find my daddies now?” she asks, wiping the tears from her cheeks with both hands, because she can do that now, apparently. 

On auto-pilot, Michaela opens her arms, and Emily latches onto her, wrapping her legs around Michaela’s waist and her arms around her neck. Michaela manages to get to her feet without blacking out, and she turns stiffly towards a gap in the debris, not trusting herself to be able to take the route she used to get here without dropping Emily. 

She blinks once, twice. Breathes deep for a moment, recalling the familiar pattern of inhales and exhales, and when she feels like she’s now going to collapse in on herself like a dying star, she strikes out, heading back to where she was ushering survivors what feels like a hundred years ago.

“Yeah, Emily,” she says, though she’s only half aware of her mouth moving. “We’re gonna find your daddies, no problem.”

Michaela might have no clue how she’s going to accomplish that, but hell if she’s gonna make that in any way known to Emily. Emily, who’s tucked her face into Michaela’s neck and is humming what sounds like some kid’s show theme song to herself. 

_Kids are fucking resilient as hell_.

About a block away from where she’s hoping the survivors have congregated, Michaela shifts Emily’s weight to one arm, swears a blue streak in her head when she realizes that’s probably the arm she landed on earlier, then, after fixing her mask and goggles, she grabs her phone from her pocket and calls Spider-Man, because texting is not happening right now.

“_Blackout? Is something wrong? ‘Cause I can be back there—_”

“Nah, Spidey, it’s fine. I’m calling ‘cause I think I’ve got the last of the civilians from this area, so I’m getting out of the danger zone. And also… tell me if you or the others run into anyone named Nakamura, okay?”

“_Nakamura? I can do that, but why?_”

“I’ve got their kid with me, and I’d really like to deliver her back to them. Just let me know?”

“_Yeah, yes, I can do that! We’re almost done over here. The Hulk finally took down the big robot thing that the woman was like, riding around in, so the Avengers are dealing with that and us vigilantes are rounding up civilians still. Daredevil says hi, by the way!_”

Michaela snorts. “He does not, you brat.” She darts a look at the street she’s on then rattles off her location to Spidey. “Meet me here as soon as you can. You can prove to yourself that I didn’t die or anything, ‘kay?”

“_See you soon, Blackout!_”

“See ya, Spidey.”

“How come he calls you Blackout?” Emily asks before Michaela’s even deposited the phone back in her pocket. She startles a little, unsure how to answer. Then she pastes on another half-smile and readjusts her grip on Emily.

“I told you I’m like Captain America, right?” Emily nods against her shoulder. “Well, Captain America’s real name is Steve Rogers, but when he’s out being a hero, people call him Captain America. My hero friends call me Blackout, because that’s my hero name.”

“But…”

“Michaela is my real name,” Michaela says, “but not everyone knows that. Steve Rogers is really, really famous, so everyone knows who he is. But I’m… not like that. So. I usually go by Blackout, but I thought you’d like to know who I really am. You gotta keep it a secret, though, alright? It’s real important that you’re the only one who knows my name. Think you can do that for me?”

Emily thinks on that for a few seconds, during which Michaela wonders absently if her career as a vigilante is going to be ended by a talkative ten-year-old, but then she nods again, squeezing her arms around Michaela’s neck.

“You’re nice,” she mumbles into Michaela’s skin. “I won’t tell anyone _ever_.”

“Thanks, Emily. _You’re _nice, too.”

“Do you have powers, Michaela?”

“Oh, yeah! Shoot, I’ve been saying I’m like Cap this whole time, I shoulda been comparing myself to Thor. ‘Cause that’s what I’m good at — _lightning_.” More or less the truth, though she’s reluctant to even jokingly connect herself to Thor. It feels like an insult to the guy. Plus, there’s the whole _conspiracy theory _thing that she would very much like to not acknowledge in the slightest. “Cool, huh?”

Emily doesn’t answer at first, and Michaela’s starting to think that it’s _not _all that cool, when she realizes that Emily’s dropped off to sleep on her shoulder. That’s… unexpected. But it shouldn’t be, she figures; kid’s been through a helluva day, and the thing with her arm… Must’ve taken a lot out of her. Hopefully by the time she wakes up, Michaela will have located her parents. 

A real smile finds it way to lips when she’s reached the grouping of survivors, many of whom are filming the carnage, and subsequently Michaela’s entrance, on their phones. A few people let out cheers at her arrival, a few more call out their thanks to her. She’s said it before, she’s not in it for the thanks, but this… she’s not gonna deny it’s a nice feeling. She couldn’t save everyone, will never be able to save everyone, but she made a difference for these people, at least a little. 

She’s never going to be an Avenger, but doesn’t mean she can’t be a hero.

The validation is nice, is all.

What’s _also _nice is knowing that Michaela might’ve found herself another Inhuman – one she can trust to Skye and Lincoln, hopefully. Emily Nakamura is going to live a long, wizard-less life if Michaela has anything to say about it, and she’s got a veritable dictionary of shit to say on the topic, so. SHIELD better be willing to protect this girl, because otherwise Michaela is going to have _words _with Coulson.


	21. chapter seventeen | matt and michaela finally get there shit together - mostly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About time, am I right?

Blackout making her triumphant return to Hell’s Kitchen goes about as well as one might expect. That is to say, no one gives a damn.

She does make it into the paper early on, though she’s not ecstatic about it. That reporter who dubbed her as Knock-Off Thor crawls out from whatever rock he’s been living under and does – she thinks it’s supposed to be an expose? On Blackout? How she got started, what she’s done (for) to the neighborhood over the past almost-year, why she vanished for a good two weeks and then suddenly bounced back onto the scene with new tricks up her nonexistent sleeves.

The highlight of the article is honestly the grainy photo of her crouched on a fire escape, a phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear while she mindlessly rubs her hands together, sparks flying from the friction. The reporter made some crass comment about her – she doesn’t even know, her lackadaisical tendencies? Made her out to be a useless addition to the parade of vigilantes haunting New York, or something. She only skimmed the thing (okay, after reading it through two or three times, she’s got a boatload of insecurities, alright?).

She can’t really account for what she was doing with her hands (trying to entertain herself, probably, but that’s not really helping her case), but the phone call? Peter was getting her advice on an English paper he had due the next day, and Aunt May was working late and Ned (his best friend, she’s gathered) was over but he wasn’t helping _at all_ and could she just listen to his thesis statement and let him know on a scale of one to ten how likely he was to fail?

(He got an A, because of course he did, which ultimately had nothing to do with Michaela’s intervention. Go figure.)

The neighborhood’s starting to take to her, though, she’s noticed. Maybe they haven’t embraced her as emphatically as they have Jessica or Matt, but she has people waving to her now when she’s on patrol, and a guy stopped her right after she’d jumpstarted someone’s car and high-fived her. Looking back on it, there’s a non-zero chance he was either high or drunk, but the sentiment remains, and she’s… happy about it. Happy to see she’s made a tangible difference in people’s lives.

Michaela hums to herself as she empties the rest of the elbow pasta into the pot she’s got sitting on the stovetop, contemplative. Her apartment has a finite amount of furniture, and a kitchen-slash-dining room table isn’t among her collection, so she makes do by lifting herself onto the tiny counter that’s adjacent to the oven, perched next to the sink and dutifully ignoring the plethora of dishes that are in dire need of a good scrubbing. She’s gonna end up eating straight out of the pot, anyway, another day of deliberately not doing the dishes won’t hinder her attempts at eating—alright, never mind, three squared meals aren’t going to happen regardless of the state of her dishes.

Her phone chimes where it sits next to her on the counter. Peter’s name pops up and she bites her lip, stifling a grin.

**someone stole my backpack again! **

_I keep telling you webbing it to a random surface is not a viable plan for hiding it _

_ How many is this again? _

** ** **it’s the third one this year**

** aunt mays gonna kill me**

** or wORSE**

** DISOWN ME**

_Okay_

_ The HP reference is noted_

_ But Peter my dude my boy that is what one might call inappropriate humor_

_ Not that I’m one to judge _

**im sorry im stressed i don’t want her to ask why it keeps happening **

Michaela pauses, weighing her options. A part of her – the rational part, the one that tells her every year that calling her dad on his birthday would be a step in the right direction – is making quite the argument for telling Peter he should come clean to his aunt. Peter is _fifteen_, he doesn’t need to be shouldering the heroic burdens of an entire borough. He doesn’t need to be stressing about losing multiple backpacks to dicks wandering through alleyways. He doesn’t need _this _– this life that’s about giving a chunk of yourself to the world and expecting nothing in return, where you’re labeled a criminal for doing what you think is right.

And yet.

Michaela’s older, yeah, she’s independent. There isn’t going to be someone sitting by the phone waiting on her to call or stop by, no one waiting up for her if she’s out all night. The most she’d have to answer for is missing her job (which, let’s be real, she’s on thin fucking ice with that anyway what with her being out for injuries every other week), and even then, she’s replaceable. And that’s sad, maybe, but it’s the truth. Michaela knows every step that led her to this point, and there’s things she wishes she could undo, conversations she’d like to take back, but – she owns up to her choices. She doesn’t stand by all of them, in fact there’s about four- or five-years’ worth of choices in there that she’d like to wipe out altogether.

She’s an adult, though, right? She made her bed, she’s gotta lie in it.

She should tell Peter to hang up the suit and smash the web-shooters and just live his life, because he’s got a helluva bright future ahead of him; she’s no genius but she’s smart enough to see that.

_And yet_.

Just because she’s older, just because she’s an _adult_… that doesn’t make her any less of a hypocrite. Telling Peter to stand down when he knows the risks, knows the ripple-effect of him not coming back from a fight – does she even have the right? They’re not related, he’s not her brother, not her kid. Her opinion might matter to him but she has no authority here, no leverage. She’s even a little selfish, because _she _doesn’t want him quitting the hero gig.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard, her mouth thinned into a flat line. Fuck, she’s not qualified for this.

_You got any bullies at school? _

Peter doesn’t seem bothered by her switching tracks, given how quickly he fires back a text.

**uh yeah. it’s high school **(he doesn’t type it, but she reads the added _duh _with ease, rolling her eyes at his intended tone)

Hm. That, uh, that does not sit right with her. They’ll revisit this later, but for now, she has shoddy advice to be giving out, completely unsolicited.

_That’s what you tell your aunt then. Bullies stole your backpack. Three times. Kind of a stretch but if you give her the puppy dog eyes it’ll probably work _

**puppy dog eyes? **

_Peter. You’ve got big brown eyes and a baby face. Your repertoire of looks is almost exclusively puppy dog eyes _

Michaela knows what she’s talking about, particularly because she never perfected the look herself, and god, did she try in her younger years. She never got away with anything more major than the whitest of lies, and even then, she’s pretty sure her mom was only indulging her in those moments.

The bubbling of the water distracts her, and she casts the pot a fleeting look, bobbing her head slightly before she decides it’ll keep for another minute or two. She returns her attention to her phone just as Peter replies.

**i’m holding you accountable if this goes badly **

_Sure thing, Pete. You know where I live, and all that jazz _

**!!!!**

** oh shit I do!!!**

Michaela snorts, clapping a hand to her mouth to stifle the high-pitched laughter that follows right on its heels. She’s not surprised he’s somehow forgotten their heart-warming moment on her rooftop, per se, but. Well, no, yeah that pretty much sums up her feelings. Not surprised, not disappointed – amused, if she has to slap a label on it. Never mind the fact that she’s been using his give name throughout this entire conversation, it’s just frankly hilarious that something that monumental could escape his notice, though she’s a little touched that he’s comfortable enough with her that this shift in their dynamics hasn’t altered their friendship too much.

_Good luck with your aunt. Let me know how things shake out, yeah? _

**Can do Michaela! **

Grinning, she sets her phone aside and hops down from the counter, pausing briefly to snag a gently used spoon from the dishrack for stirring purposes. Normally she’d have set the timer on the stove so she knows how long to boil the pasta but, ugh, she’s done this often enough, hasn’t she? She can eyeball it, and hey, if she gets mushy, overcooked macaroni for her troubles, then that’s the punishment for overestimating her (incredibly limited) culinary skills. She gives the pasta a quick stir, frowns at the spoon, then stirs it for another couple of seconds. That’s fine, right? She doesn’t usually stir it _that _much…

What the fuck. How can she not remember? She cooked pasta _three nights ago_!

In all fairness, that was another night where she had to abandon her dinner in favor of taking a call from Jessica Jones, who – in a shocking turn of events – _needed her help_. It wasn’t for anything crazy, which in hindsight she’s grateful for, but it was nice to be able to offer her services to a fellow do-gooder and the warmth of that minor victory carried her through having to eat dry cereal for dinner, since she’d burned the only pasta she had in the apartment at the time. Better the pasta than her kitchen, and subsequently her entire apartment, yeah, but she’s also fairly certain that cereal had been past its expiration date. She hadn’t thought cereal _had _an expiration date prior to that, so. She learned something new that night.

(Something other than, ya know, what the inside of Jessica’s office looks like, which. Michaela feels a sort of kinship with her now that she’d rather die than admit to Jessica’s face. Still nice, though)

Michaela’s turning that thought over in her mind, wondering what would happen should she ever divulge that information (nothing good, according to her scarily active imagination), when a faint sound rouses her. That’s – decidedly not her imagination, because it comes again, slightly louder. Knocking? No, not – it’s not coming from the direction of her door, and she swivels when she hears it for the third time, eyes flitting to every corner of her apartment. Not the neighbors, she thinks, flicking a glance at the ceiling; she’s never had a noise problem with whoever’s upstairs, and everyone else on her floor seems to be out more often than not.

It’s not even knocking, it’s more like—

_Tap. Taptaptap_.

Michaela twists on her heel, pressing her hands flat to the counter as she leans over it, straining to make out the window adjacent to her bed, and—

Oh, fuck. What fresh hell is this?

She doesn’t quite vault over the counter (because that would end in tears and possibly a broken appendage on her part) but she side-steps it quickly, not-quite running over to her window and flinging it open with much less hesitation than is probably proper, given the circumstances.

_Matt Fucking Murdock _sways through the open frame, already sluggishly dragging the mask from his face. It slips from his fingers and lands with a disarming clatter on the ground, but she—Michaela can’t look away from Matt’s face.

“Michaela,” he says, smiling through a wince, “hi, it’s. Uh. Sorry for the intrusion.”

“Matt,” she hisses, barely letting the last syllable hit her before she’s reaching out for him, hands automatically clutching at the grab-able bits of his suit. She doesn’t know where to look, where it’s safe to touch. “_Matt_, what the _actual_ _fuck happened to you_?”

_Blood_. Fuck, there’s so much blood. A cut on his cheek drips with it, his mouth is smeared red courtesy of his split lip; his teeth are stained, too, though she can’t tell if it’s from the lip or from something internal making itself known _externally_. Her eyes pass in quick sweeps over his suit but of course it’s red anyway and fuck, he’s holding a hand to his side, keeping pressure on it, maybe, or is he only bruised? God, fuck, he’s, he might as well be one giant bruise at this point, what exposed skin there is already discolored, looking like it’s darkening right before her fucking eyes.

There’s a hitch in his breathing, a quiet note of pain that she wouldn’t notice if she weren’t currently pumped full of adrenaline and hyper-focusing on every square of inch of this absolute _bastard_. Fuck, fuck, okay, broken ribs for sure, she knows that one intimately (thanks _Rodriguez_). Oh, god, her slapped-together med kit is woefully underequipped for this level of damage.

And Matt’s still _smiling_.

“Got… a little in over my head,” he gets out, gripping one of her wrists shakily, the other pressing just a bit more firmly into his side. His nose scrunches up with another wince and she wants to violently shake him and scream and _fuck_— “Ironic, huh? Since I’ve, uh, been telling you not to do that anymore.”

There’s a sliver of a moment where she thinks: this is it. This is when she officially loses what’s left of her sanity and gets hauled off kicking and screaming to the nearest hospital. Better yet, _this _is when her heart just. Gives out. Flooded with panic, galloping right out of her chest, it just – just stops. Matt Murdock is going to be the death of her, literally.

And then she inhales sharply, catches the metallic tang of his blood, hears herself shudder out an exhale. She squeezes her eyes shut, digs her fingers deeper into the malleable bits of his suit. Tenses her grip until the shaking subsides. Until the tell-tale heat behind her eyes dissipates. Until she feels Matt slide a hand up her forearm, gentle, always so gentle, offering up comfort and reassuring without saying a word, when for once – _for once _– that shouldn’t be his job.

Michaela blinks open her eyes, takes in the naked concern on Matt’s bloody face, and decides – _fuck everything_, she’s not having a panic attack right now, she’s not going to lose her shit. She’s not, she _won’t_.

“You dumbass,” she says, her voice hoarse, the words choked out of her. She does shake him a little, nothing harsh, just enough to convey that he’s an idiot and that she knows he’s an idiot. “Get the fuck in here, you’re bleeding all over the fire escape when you could be bleeding all over the bed.”

She sees the protest on his lips and grits her teeth. Nope, not the time, Matty. _Let yourself be coddled, you fucking asshole_.

“In,” she insists, ducking to snake an arm around his torso, careful of his _everything_ as she guides him away from the window, hunching a little under his weight but refusing to even mutter a complaint.

They shuffle awkwardly towards her bed, Matt pale and unsteady, his grip on her shoulder just short of bruising with the effort of holding up as much of himself as he can. It’s only about twenty feet but Matt can barely walk and Michaela hasn’t exactly been prioritizing her strength training; what’s more, she keeps darting glances at him, cataloguing every twinge, every tensing of his muscles, the tendons of his neck straining, his jaw clenching around whatever noise he traps his in his throat.

There’s a moment of clarity that hits her like a fucking eighteen-wheeler, her heart stuttering at the realization that _this _is how Matt must’ve felt, when he couldn’t reach her after the fight with Rodriguez, when she called him after the wizard debacle. And lingering resentment she might’ve had about him ambushing her in her apartment promptly vanishes. Fuck if she wouldn’t do the exact same thing, fuck if she wouldn’t track him down just to yell at him if he scared her like that. Fuck if she wouldn’t—

They’ve stopped moving. Matt has his head turned toward her, his mouth leveled into a faint frown. Her heart is hammering in her chest and she’s breathing unevenly, blinking back a fresh onslaught of tears. She’s been—just so stupid. So, so stupid.

“Michaela—”

“It’s nothing,” she says, then curses under her breath, shakes her head when he just keeping _looking _at her, his eyes unerringly finding hers when she chances a look at him. How he does that she doesn’t fucking know, and now is _not the time _to sate her curiosity. “It’s nothing that’s worth dealing with right now,” she amends, and while that doesn’t go a long towards appeasing him, he accepts her words at face value, dipping his head in a slight nod, taking a deep breath himself. Bracing for another attempt at walking, probably.

The sound Matt lets out when she finally manages to leverage him onto the bed – she almost mirrors it, biting a little savagely into her tongue to staunch the reaction. Matt doesn’t need her freaking out, he doesn’t need her crying into his fucking wounds. She can – she can hold out for now, fix what she can and figure something out for the rest before she. Does something. Faints, maybe. Up and dies, more likely.

“Okay,” she says, more to herself than to him, though she’s aware that he’s listening, “okay, let’s just. Start with the basics. You – talk,” she adds as she studies his suit, searching for, she doesn’t even know, hidden clasps? A zipper? How does he get _into _all this shit? “I need more than just _got a little in over your head_.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s—” Matt, perhaps sensing her frustration with the mechanics of his hero gear, grabs her hand and brings it to his opposite wrist. Right, gloves. Those she’s got covered. She starts easing the glove from his hand, mindful that he’s more than likely got bruised and battered (if not broken) knuckles under there. He lets out a quiet hiss when she’s got it halfway off, head dropping back onto shitty excuse for a pillow she’s been suffering for the last year or so. She’s regretting not splurging on a new one right now more than she ever has before. “Drug traffickers.”

She lifts a brow, dropping his glove unceremoniously onto the floor and starting in on the next one. “Drug traffickers did this to you? Uh. They’re not usually that good at getting the drop on you…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, and it would’ve been fine, but.” His mouth twists into a wry smile, his eyes somehow brighter against the backdrop of bruising. “They, uh, they had… I guess you’d call it a sound grenade?”

Michaela freezes, her hand caught on the strap of his belt.

Matt visibly swallows, closing his eyes. “Uh-huh. Loud enough to stun a normal person for a few seconds at least, have them drop their guard, but. You know. With me it was like everything was turned up to eleven. So loud I thought my ears were going to start bleeding.”

That… would be about the only thing she can think of that would put Matt at a clear disadvantage. Electricity flits through her veins, almost an itch under her skin, screaming to be let loose on whoever put their hands on Matt. But that thought, satisfying as it might be, isn’t productive. So she stows it for now and puts the energy humming inside of her to be use; namely, getting Matt’s stupid utility belt undone. She looks him over again, wincing. Yeah, this next part isn’t going to fun for either of them.

“Matt, you’re… um. You’re gonna have to sit up, aren’t you?”

The lines around his eyes tighten as he nods grudgingly, his whole body tensing at the prospect. Fuck, she’d do it another way, any other way, it’s just – there’s no cutting him out of it, like she would regular clothes. Scissors aren’t going to make a dent and she doesn’t trust herself with a knife, not when she might only make things worse in the long-term.

She rakes her hair back out of her face, absently pulls it back and secures it with the rubber band she’s got sitting snug around her wrist. Right, okay, no getting around this. Matt’s going to be more comfortable with the body armor off and Michaela’ll get a chance to see the extent of his injuries. She doesn’t want to hurt him (and this is going to hurt, she has no doubt about that), but, well. Needs must, and all that. She’d trust him to do it for her, wouldn’t even have to think twice about. She just hopes he feels the same way.

But, before that—

Michaela leans down, bracing one hand against the mattress, using the other to brush Matt’s damp hair back. She bites her lip, wondering a little morbidly whether it’s damp with sweat or blood, though she figures it only matters if he’s got a head wound she’s overlooking. And she’ll get around to that, once she’s done with this and about a dozen other things that need seeing to.

Fuck. Just… fuck.

Matt grins, just a little, at the touch, leaning into it, and yeah, she gets why the guy might be craving a gentle hand after what he’s been through tonight. So she smooths her hand down to cup his cheek, avoiding what scrapes and bruises she can, his perpetual five-o-clock shadow rough but welcome against the pads of her fingers.

“Be honest with me for a second,” she says, soft, barely more than a whisper. She waits for him to nod, then asks, “How close was I to losing you tonight?”

He doesn’t – she’s not expecting any particular reaction, her expectations were shot to hell the moment she opened her window, and yet he still manages to surprise her when he wraps his hand (and yup, most of his knuckles are split and swollen) around hers, pressing it harder to his cheek. When he turns his head enough to brush his lips against her palm.

Her breath hitches in her traitorous chest, and he laughs, one little huff before it’s cut off with a groan, his ribs no doubt protesting his amusement.

“Closer than I would’ve liked,” he says at last. “Karma’s a bitch, huh?”

“Asshole,” she mutters, grinning despite herself. “We’re both idiots, alright? Anyone with half a brain wouldn’t put themselves through this on a regular basis. I get it, we should both be committed. You don’t gotta rub it in.”

“To be fair,” he says, “most people wouldn’t put themselves through _this_” – he squeezes her hand, to which she furrows her brows, her mouth opening on a question that she cuts short – “either. The worry, the stress, the fear. It’s not always worth it.”

“You are,” she blurts out, hating herself for how desperate she sounds but overcome with the need for him to _understand_. “You’re worth it. I’m, uh. Not happy with you at the moment, sure. But.” She lets a sheepish smile cross her face, knowing he’ll hear it in her voice. “I can’t really put it into words, I just. I’m sure Matt Murdock pre-Daredevil was a great guy. I’m sure I woulda liked him just fine. But I met _you_ and I… I don’t regret that. Even if you’re currently staining my bed sheets with blood.” She pauses. “And, well. Yeah. I’ve definitely worried you more. Wouldn’t really be fair of me to make a complaint when I’ve come home looking worse.”

Matt blinks, slow, unsure. Then he sighs, tightens his hand around hers. “I really hope you realize that I think you’re worth it, too. All of it. Definitely more than I’ve shown you in the last couple weeks.” Before she can even begin to process that, he barrels on, “This has been a great distraction, but I’m gonna need to get this off at some point.”

Oh. _Oh_, right, yeah, that’s a thing they were doing before… whatever the hell just happened. Before her sappy bullshit got the better of her. They’ll have time to go over everything later, so she nods, tucks everything irrelevant away into some far-flung corner of her mind, and moves to slip an arm around Matt’s back, helping him ease into an upright position.

_Ease_ is the wrong word. It’s a fight, every second of it, Matt’s breathing labored, chest heaving under his body armor, his hands clenched so hard around the bedspread he’s nearly shredding it. Michaela swallows down each and every protest that bubbles up in her throat, is all but biting clean through her cheek as she tries to ground Matt with her hands on his back, his shoulders, giving him a point of contact that hopefully doesn’t fan the flames of agony he must be weathering. He sucks in a short, strangled breath as she slips her hands under the edges of the armor at the small of his back – there’s so good way of going about this, she knows it and Matt all but confirmed it with his involuntary reactions, and it’s _nothing _like ripping off a band-aid—

“Fuck, _please don’t hate me_—”

She’s not deliberately slow about it, doesn’t linger when he chokes on a breath or when his hand clamps around her forearm, spasms twice and digs blunt nails into tender flesh. Michaela tries for efficiency and probably hits something just shy of _not-so-bad-that-she’s-literally-killing-him_, and time feels stretched out like a rubber-band, waiting to suddenly snap back at her, like this is taking too long to be real, every moment a new subsection of Hell—

And then the armor is off and hurriedly tossed to the far side of the room, and Matt’s collapsing back into the sheets, heaving for a decent breath. Michaela stands there for a second or two, stunned that it’s _over_, that they can move the fuck on because that might actually have been the worst thirty seconds of her entire life (and god, it was _only thirty seconds it felt like six eternities laid out end to end_). But, fuck, okay, not the time for her existential crisis; she darts in to squeeze Matt’s hand, a fleeting reassurance, then runs back into her kitchen and tears open the cabinet under the sink. She’s got one med kit and she knows from past experience that it’s not stocked with all the essentials (she never seems to remember to buy them when she’s out, and when she does – _money_) but it’s going to have to do. Matt’s told her before that hospitals are out (and _duh_, she’s aware that stumbling into the emergency room decked out in your vigilante finest and bleeding profusely is a one way ticket to the nearest precinct) and Michaela doesn’t have anyone she can call that has any sort of medical skill set.

They’re on their own with this, which is. Fine. Totally fine. Michaela already promised herself she’s not going to curl up on the floor in a fetal position, so. She’ll deal.

(She might vomit later but that’s _later_)

She grabs the kit and makes her way back to the bed, twisting so she can get a knee up on the mattress and more or less hover over Matt’s prone body. God. She blinks, looking down at him, blinks again. Okay, okay, he’s – pretty beat up. She expected this, she did – the purple-edged bruises that line his ribs aren’t a surprise, nor are the razor-thin cuts on the side of this throat, where his cowl apparently wasn’t protection enough from whatever blade the person was wielding. The armor did its job, though – there are no other stab wounds, as far as she can tell, which is quite the fucking relief for her, given that she doesn’t know how to sow stitches and she really, _really _doesn’t want to stick a needle into Matt, anyway.

“Alright,” Michaela says out loud, infusing her voice with as much comfort as she can muster, “alright, basics first. We’ll, uh. Flush out the cuts?” She looks at him, helpless, the med kit open and useless on the bed next to her.

Matt’s eyes are on the ceiling, but he must realize she’s staring at him; he flexes a hand, reaches it out to her and lands at the edge of her thigh. The tips of his fingers are cold and that’s somehow terrifying in the moment; Matt’s always so _warm_.

“That’s as good a start as any,” he says, and she has to smile. He’s too fucking good for her.

So that’s where she starts. Matt doesn’t flinch from the antiseptic, muffles a hiss when she presses against his ribcage to feel for breaks (_at least two, Jesus fuck_). She wraps his knuckles in the gauze she unearths from the depths of her bathroom cabinet (probably from that time she got into it with a guy hopped up on _something_, right before she discovered she is very okay with mildly shocking civilians in order to get shit done). She runs a washcloth she inexplicably has under the sink and cleans the blood and sweat from Matt’s skin. The ribs she can’t do much for, but she puts together a makeshift splint for the fingers Matt broke punching some cocky drug dealer in the face – repeatedly. Ill-advised maybe, but she bets it was fucking satisfying after the sound grenade bullshit.

By the time she’s sure he isn’t going to keel-over if left alone for more than five seconds, she’s run herself ragged, and the stress is catching up to her. Michaela drops heavily onto the mattress, giving not one iota of a shit about propriety as she tucks up her legs and curls down against Matt’s (least injured) side. She feels Matt’s splinted fingers in her hair after a few heartbeats have passed and she retaliates by blindly flailing out a hand until she connects with Matt’s chest (_gently_), splaying her fingers against the steadying rhythm of his heart.

“I hate you,” she says, sans venom. Sans any emotion, honestly, unless numbing exhaustion counts more as an emotion than a state of being.

Matt’s chest vibrates with muted laughter under her fingers. How is he _laughing_, Christ, he’s insane. Which definitely makes her twice as insane just by virtue of continuing to be his friend. Continuing to _pine after him_. “About eighty-percent of my body shares the sentiment.”

“You scare me like that again, Murdock, and I’ll…”

“Yeah, I know. And you’ll have every right. But the same goes for you.”

That’s… fair. “I’ll take it,” she says, tilting her head back so she’s got a clear view of his face. She blinks – he’s… not watching her back, obviously, but his eyes are on her almost dead-center. And, fuck her, he’s smiling again. She’s weak for that smile and she’s not even ashamed to admit it. Anymore. “…I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you, either, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve been going prematurely gray since I met you.”

“Ah, but what a sophisticated silver fox you’ll be, Matty. Your lawyer level is gonna just _skyrocket_, I can feel it.”

Matt doesn’t say anything, and Michaela quietly does _not _freak out. She’s an adult, okay, she can handle silence. Awkward silence, even, though that’s not how she’d describe what’s going on just now. It’s a _long _silence, though, that’s – mildly disconcerting. Did he fall asleep, or—

“Michaela, come up here for a second.”

Come up for _what_, exactly? Michaela debates the merits of asking – Matt’s real honest with her these days, another facet of that famous Catholic Guilt – then rolls a shoulder in a shallow shrug and twists so she’s closer to upright, digging her elbows into the bed and leveraging herself up enough that she and Matt are face-to-face. She quirks a brow, silently asking now anyway, very much ignoring the fact that that minute facial expression might be lost on the guy.

She blinks when his hands – still trembling slightly, but warmer – cup her cheeks, thumbs passing softly over her cheekbones. Her breath stutters out of her. So. This is new. They’re not above some casual touching, never really have been, but uh. This. Is a lot for them, she’s realizing. It’s a lot for _her_. Not that she’s going to tell him to _stop_, god forbid, but.

Ugh. Why do feelings have to be so _complex_ all the time.

“Matt…”

“You’ve got me,” he says, and her heart _flutters_, goddammit, “you’ve got me, Michaela. I need you to remember that, okay?”

This man is – so much, he’s _so much_, and Michaela—

“Matt, just, okay, if you don’t like this or whatever, you can—I give you full permission to judo flip me across the room or—”

She kisses him.

Michaela may be a hopeless romantic at the worst of times, but she’s not expecting fireworks to go off behind her eyes, or for her to feel settled in her own skin for once in her life. Romance isn’t a cure-all for the human condition – and she’s learned that the hard way. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t absolutely _melt _when Matt kisses her back, threads his fingers through her hair and tugs her closer. She can feel his pulse where his wrist lines up with the edges of her jaw and it’s perfectly synchronized with her own – which is a little gratifying, no lie.

She’s breathless when she finally pulls back, reluctant about it, resting her forehead against Matt’s.

“Um,” she says, ever articulate. “So, I see you didn’t judo flip me.”

Matt’s laugh is warm where it spills across her nose and cheeks, the heat prickling her skin and wreaking fucking havoc on her already unsteady heart. “No, I didn’t.”

“This is… probably a monumentally bad idea.”

“Probably,” he agrees, amused.

“You know Foggy and Karen are going to be insufferable about this.”

“Oh, sure. I wouldn’t expect any less of them.”

“I just—okay, laying cards on the table here. This isn’t, uh. Like, I’m way beyond casual, Matt, it’s… a little terrifying.”

“Do you want me to drop the _L word _this early or would that make it worse?”

“Matt, what the fuck—”

Michaela stares at him, incredulous, and he just laughs, smoothing his hands down from her face, over her shoulders, snaking them around her waist to urge her to lay down beside him. The bed’s barely big enough for one person, but they manage to align themselves well enough that neither of them are in danger of taking a mortifying spill onto the floor. She’s wary of putting pressure on his _everything_, so she settles for hugging his side and laying an across his waist, enjoying the skin-to-skin contact more than she realized she would. It’s been… awhile since she’s been this close to anyone.

“You’re not serious,” she says, her voice dropping into a whisper because somehow the situation demands that of her. Matt’ll hear her anyway, so she supposes it doesn’t make any real difference. “Oh, shit, are you serious?”

Matt’s tucked his face into her hair and she can _feel _him smirking, the asshole. “The question is which answer you’d prefer.”

“I…” Oh, wow. She, uh, She’s thought about this, sure, every girl’s got her fantasies. Hers have never included quite this much blood but hell, that’s kinda par for the course at this point. And, really, she trusts Matt – he wouldn’t lie about this, wouldn’t spin it into a joke no matter what she replies with. “I, um. I think I’ve been at least a little in love with you since… god, I don’t even—No, no, I actually do know. That day I was over your apartment, when you talked me down from my panic attack before it even got out of control?”

“That always impresses people, true.”

“No, Matty, you dumbass, I just realized… you _see me_. And it’s cheesy and cliché and especially ironic given the fact that you’re _blind_, but. You do. All the worst bits included. And you’re not trying to fix everything, but you want to help regardless, and that’s.” Michaela swallows, turning her face to press her cheek into his chest. “That means a lot to me.”

Matt pauses, quiet; his hand – with his stupid broken fingers – smooths down her back and back up in comforting sweeps. She listens to him breathe and feels the momentary panic ebbing with every measured exhale.

“Just to be clear,” he says eventually, “I love you, too. Have for a while. Karen’s been very unforgiving about it, honestly, she’s be grateful that I’ve finally done something about it.”

Michaela can’t help but snort, imagining Karen and her very own version of the Disappointed Eyebrows and how effective that would be on Matt even without him being able to see them. And then what he said processes and she just. Laughs at the absurdity of it. She’s in love with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and somehow, Daredevil loves Knock-Off Thor just as much. What a strange fucking world she’s living in.

“If we’re being completely honest… I’m just glad you didn’t like, disown me as your friend after the Second SHIELD Bullshit Session of 2016. So. You know. This is all going a lot better than all the scenarios I played out in my head.”

“Glad I didn’t disappoint.”

“Like you could ever, Murdock. All you’d have to do is _smile at me_ and whatever ill feelings I might have towards you would like, vanish.”

“Good to know.”

“Ugh.”

“I love you, Michaela.”

“Love you, too, Matty.”


	22. chapter eighteen | fucking wizards, man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendly-ish friends exist. Who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So, I'm terribly sorry for taking so long to get this (admittedly lackluster) chapter out. The last few months of school have been hellish, and on top of that I was having trouble finetuning the plot for this. But now I think I've ironed out a decent plan and have the rest of the fic more or less plotted out! Okay, so, details: This chapter skips ahead a few months, and while I know my timeline is a little wonky, I'd put this chapter somewhere in November of 2016. And, in case anyone's noticed, that's well past when Civil War should've taken place. I'll be getting to that once the whole wizard situation resolves itself, I promise, so stay tuned for some Avengers shenanigans after Michaela's main plot finishes up!

Michaela is, obviously, an idiot.

There’re the usual reasons, of course – she’s reckless when it comes to the _valiant heroics _she engages in daily, somewhat emotionally constipated despite the way things have turned out with Matt. She’s coasting on a handful of Cs and the rare, glorified B in her classes. She’s regularly schooled in modern slang by a fifteen-year-old. That maybe-mold-maybe-something-related-to-the-bubonic-plague spot in her apartment has yet to be dealt with because she’d rather face down a gaggle of gang members than ring up her super.

None of that has changed, but there have been some interesting additions in the last few months, the most startling of which is that she genuinely thought she could go till the end of the year without Hell’s Kitchen hosting an impromptu _Harry Potter _LARPing session.

Why she thought her good luck would hold out for longer than a month _at the most_, she couldn’t say. She’s probably high on the euphoria brought on by her relationship with Matt, and also distracted by the visceral need not to fuck things up in that department. She might deserve a pass; frankly, she doesn’t know, and it’s a struggle to bring herself to care, especially when – regardless of how she got there – the outcome is her opening the door to her apartment, expecting Matt, and getting another fucking wizard instead.

What a downgrade.

Michaela glances over her shoulder, as if by some miracle this guy _isn’t _here to see her specifically, and is in fact looking for the madman who’s been squatting in the nonexistent hiding places in her apartment. But no such luck, she’s all by herself in here, just like usual. No squatter to speak of, which means no one else to deal with the severely frowning cosplayer now standing in her doorway. Fantastic.

Huffing out a breath, she crosses her arms and leans her weight against the door frame. Normally, wizard = sparks flying, but Michaela is not here for this today, and anyway, dude hasn’t so much as conjured up a flicker of the telltale magical bracelets, so. Call her optimistic, but she’s not angling for a to-the-death duel right at this moment and would like to avoid one if at all possible.

“Can I help you?” she asks, stilted, squinting at him and all his green robes and general air of mystery. “Just FYI, if you’re here to kill me, or otherwise inflict traumatic harm, my super lethal boyfriend should be here any second, and while I’m not the most capable hero on the block, he’s another story entirely.”

The man smiles, teeth bright against his dark skin, and it doesn’t exactly soften any of his abrasive edges, but it does convince her that he’s probably not planning on ripping out her entrails just yet. What can she say? It’s a nice smile – not nearly as psychotic as _The Hunger Games _wannabe’s.

“There’s no killing on my agenda today” – _which isn’t at all reassuring, does he think that’s reassuring? _– “so be at ease, Ms. King.”

Her shoulders slump. “Aw, fuck, why do you know my name?”

He raises both hands, placating. She catches the glint of something shiny and gold around his wrists, peeking out from under the hems of his sleeves – bracers, maybe? Not cuffs, not bracelets. But bracers, of all things? Well, she supposes it would go quite nicely with the rest of his get-up. “I’ve not learned it for any nefarious reason. It’s only that you happen to be the one who’s come up against Cato time and time again, and I need what information you might have about him.”

“Cato?” Michaela blinks, then blinks again for good measure. She has to resist the urge to pull a cartoony move like sticking her finger in her ear to check for any blockages and only just manages it. “You’re after _Cato_? Now? It’s been months, where the fuck have you been all this time?”

Should she refrain from cursing out the undoubtedly masterful wizard dude who’s shown up out of nowhere and likely knows creative ways to make a body disappear? Yeah, sure, but when has Michaela ever listened to common sense? She’s a vigilante, for fuck’s sake, common sense went out the window like a year ago and she hasn’t seen it since.

His smile doesn’t falter, though it seems to sharpen, the edge of an anger that isn’t directed towards her but chills her all the same. “Yes, Cato is… crafty. He always has been. He’s been evading me for months, masking his presence from even the Ancient One’s eyes.”

“The Ancient One,” Michaela repeats, dubious. “Right, sure, let’s just pretend that makes any sense to me. What’s important is that you’re a wizard, and you’re here now looking to take this asshole down, right?”

“We aren’t wizards. We prefer masters of the mystic arts.”

“That’s great. Doesn’t answer my question, though.”

Michaela hasn’t been this done with a conversation since her last boyfriend broke up her, and he droned on for a solid _fifteen minutes_, describing in excruciating detail why they didn’t fit as a couple. She’s pretty sure he had a PowerPoint tucked away somewhere and it’s only by the grace of whatever deity is watching out for her that he didn’t sit her down in front of his laptop and go through it slide by slide.

The man – who hasn’t even introduced himself yet, Christ, the manners on this guy – smiles again like she’s just made a joke. She didn’t, and it’s a little condescending that he clearly sees her as _amusing _rather than rightfully pissed off, but oh fucking well, right? Not like there’s much she can do about it. So he’s smiling, and he lays a hand over his heart, solemn-like.

“I am indeed here to bring Cato to justice. He’s overdue for a visit to the New York Sanctum, and if even half the tales I’ve heard about him of late are true, then the Ancient One will certainly be eager to talk with him.”

“Oh, trust me, whatever you’ve heard? He’s done worse.”

“I feared as much,” he says, sounding just the right amount of remorseful.

And maybe he genuinely is feeling guilty over letting Cato abide by his own evidently skewed moral code for this long, but Michaela… just doesn’t care. She’s wanted this bastard of a wizard gone for _months _and has been beating herself up about it for just as long because she hasn’t been able to do _anything_. Grace is alive, yeah, but she’s in hiding, holed up somewhere outside the city like she’s in the witness protection program thanks to one of Matt’s lawyer buddies. She can’t come back until Cato is dealt with, forced to abandon the family she has here, her job, her _life_. And it’s Michaela’s fault, because against Cato, she’s practically powerless. Hell, she’s nearly died three separate times on his account! She promised to protect her little corner of the world and she’s failing spectacularly at it, despite actually heeding her own damn advice and bringing Matt and everyone else in on her predicament.

So maybe this guy understands the ramifications of his own failings. Maybe he’s here to make amends. Too bad Michaela’s at the point where she can’t even muster a facsimile of her customer-service façade for him. He’s getting the full force of her bitter self-deprecation and residual anger at the injustices of the world and she’s not even going to feel guilty about it tonight when she’s trying to sleep.

“What’s your name again?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at him, because fuck him for not having introduced himself from the get-go.

“Ah, yes, forgive my manners.” Or lack thereof, whatever. “Karl Mordo.”

“_Karl_?” she repeats, incredulous. Karl. Karl? Mordo, sure, very mysterious, very wizard-y. But _Karl_. She’s not feeling it at all, and it’s definitely showing on her face judging by the irritation she watches flit across his expression, there and gone again so fast she’d doubt herself if not for how intimately she’s gotten to know that particular look over the years. “Sorry, sorry, that was rude. Okay, I’m not that sorry, you like apparated to my door without warning—”

“Apparated?”  
“I said what I said, Karl. Now, you said you wanted to ask me some questions about our dear friend Cato? Fire away, because the faster we get this done the faster you can leave and I can reassure my very lethal boyfriend that I’m not at risk of being violently, magically murdered in my own home.” Leaning out of the doorway a bit, Michaela cranes her next to see past Mordo and feels an unprecedented smile tugging at her mouth. “Hi, Matty. You’re early, huh?”

Matt, who’s probably been lingering in the shadows and eavesdropping on the conversation to see just what level of hell he’d have to drag Michaela out of, turns fully around the corner and smiles back at her (albeit tightly) as he makes his way to her apartment. Mordo watches him move, head cocked, and politely steps aside when Matt makes to go past him. The tension around the lines of his mouth relaxes a fraction once he’s standing beside Michaela, their arms pressed firmly against each other, his familiar warmth a balm to her fraying nerves. The urge to smush her face into his shoulder and block out the rest of the world is nearly overwhelming, and she only just manages to beat it back when Matt slips his hand into hers, squeezes reassuringly and tangles their fingers together.

_We’re good_, it says, _don’t worry, we’re together, everything will work out_.

And damn if that isn’t exactly what she needs to hear right now.

“So who’s this?” Matt asks conversationally, eyebrow quirked just the right amount to convey curiosity instead of the underlying threat Michaela recognizes in the way he’s holding himself.

“Karl,” Michaela says cheerily, with a smile that bares her teeth and isn’t soft at all.

Mordo tilts his head and studies her, crossing his arms. She stares right on back, standing straighter with Matt beside her. It’s more than that, though, and it isn’t quite apathy, like she might have guessed. _Karl Mordo _came to _her_, not the other way around. Whatever he says, whatever he does past this point, that’s just facts. He’s on her doorstep, he’s looking for information he doesn’t have. Maybe he has more creative ways of squeezing what she knows out of her, but he’s not using them as of right now, which means he can make with the fucking niceties and deal with her (very understandable) bitterness.

“Karl Mordo,” is what he settles on saying after a beat, offering his hand to Matt, which Matt ignores beautifully. Mordo narrows his eyes, probably not buying the _he’s-blind-and-obviously-can’t-see-your-hand-dumbass _schtick, but he says nothing of it, just retracts his hand. “You’re the lawyer, then? Matt Murdock. You’ve earned yourself quite the reputation in your little borough.”

Matt shrugs and grins, in that _aw shucks, you shouldn’t have _way that Michaela’s seen more than once from Steve Rogers during interviews and charity gala highlights. Mordo’s not complimenting him and Matt’s perfectly aware of that, but hell if he’s going to let Mordo’s words even nick him. Her smile widens, looking at him; Matt Murdock could charm just about anyone when he wants to, has probably gotten people off based on his “good Catholic boy” act alone, and wow, okay, he and Rogers _are _pretty similar. What the fuck? Has she had a type all this time? Is she attracted to may-or-may-not-be lapsed Catholics with hearts of gold and bloody knuckles?

“Lawyer by day, anyway,” Matt says, sliding his free hand into the pocket of his slacks, his cane collapsed and tucked out of sight. There’s a fading bruise just under his jaw that his scruff usually covers, but Michaela notices that he angles his head in such a way that it’s clearly visible. “What can we do for you, Mr. Mordo? I doubt you’re in need of my legal expertise…”

“No, and I’m not sure I need the Devil’s expertise, either. But I can see that you and Ms. King are something of a package deal. May I come in?”

“Nope,” Michaela says, still infuriatingly pleasant judging by the way Mordo clenches his jaw briefly before smoothing out his expression and nodding.

“Of course. Your own space is sacred. Shall I ask my questions out here then?”

He definitely wants her to offer up an alternative location for their chat, but, well. Michaela doesn’t feel like taking this anywhere else – a café or something would feel too open, too exposed, and she’s not changing her mind about her apartment. Mordo’s not getting inside, at least not with her permission. She’s… not exactly thrilled to be airing her heroic laundry in the hallway of her apartment complex, but it’s not the worst place they could be talking. The other residents here aren’t the types to sell each other out, seeing as most everyone here has some sort of criminal record, or at the very least has a lot to lose if the police came snooping around. So it’s not the most private place in the world, but it’ll do for her. And Matt trusts her, she knows that. He’ll follow her lead with this.

“Ask away,” she agrees, very much enjoying the exasperated look Mordo shoots her in response.

He doesn’t have that many questions, it turns out.

_Where did she last encounter Cato? _In a burning library that disappeared along with him.

_Did he seem erratic? _He seemed like he was fucking insane and hellbent on making himself into a god, despite being a hardcore atheist, apparently.

_A god? _Oh yeah, is that not something he bragged about in magic shit-heel academy? He gave her the whole spiel. Plus, he’s been busy possibly siphoning the energy-slash-life force from a race of people known as Inhumans and putting that energy to use for unspecified nefarious purposes. Definitely has a god complex, whatever he says otherwise.

(He has a lot to say otherwise, she’s learned)

_Have you spoken to any Inhumans who have undergone his experiments? _

That’s where Michaela hits a snag. _Grace_ underwent something, though Michaela’s never gotten the whole story from her, not that they’ve talked much since she’s been in Matt Murdock’s Witness Protection Program. Grace might be able to shed some light on exactly how Cato is going about the whole villain thing, what magic he’s using, what artifacts. But. She’s traumatized, Michaela isn’t about to let Mordo grill her when it’s only been a couple months since the shitshow went down.

Michaela darts a look at Matt even knowing it’s a little suspicious of her; he doesn’t return it, obviously, but his grip on her hand tightens, and she can feel the steady pulse against her wrist, and it helps, it does. She swallows, shakes her head a bit, and brings her attention back to Mordo.

“Afraid to say that’s where my well runs dry. I only know about the other Inhumans because he monologued at me about them. And not everyone took to the Inhuman thing like I did, ya know? Not everyone’s running around in spandex, so I can’t really point you in any sort of specific direction. Sorry, Karl.”

“Well, what you’ve told me will certainly be useful, once I’ve checked in with a few of my contacts in the city.” He nods, more to himself then them, she figures, then straightens, clasping his hands at the small of his back. “Cato will be stopped, I can assure you of that, Ms. King, Mr. Murdock. He won’t trouble either of you for much longer.”

“That’s…” Michaela frowns. “I like the confidence, honestly, it’s totally refreshing. But, uh. What you’re saying… You sound like you’re kicking us off the case, so to speak.”  
Mordo’s mouth curls into a slight smile at that, his eyes bright. He’s itching to move, she guesses, ready to go out on the hunt again now that he’s armed with the info she’s given him. “So to speak, yes. This is a matter that should have been dealt with by Cato’s peers months ago. I take full responsibility for not having this done sooner, and I will see to it that he is brought to justice myself.”

“Right. Sure, sounds great. Except for the part where _you’re kicking us off the case_.”

“Ms. King, this should never have been your problem to begin with—”

“Oh, fuck off,” she cuts in, teeth gritted. “So what if it wasn’t _supposed _to be my problem? It fucking is now. He’s hurt people in _my _city, he’s gone after _my _people. He’s pissed _me _off, alright? And you want me to just… what? Let all of that go because you promise he’ll be _dealt with properly_?”

“Ms. King.”

“_Karl_.”

He sighs, spreading his hands in a placating gesture that only succeeds in ratcheting up her stress levels. Fuck him and his condescension, she’s not a fucking child throwing a tantrum. Her points are valid! Cato may be a wizard or whatever, and Mordo might have a claim to him because of that, but she deserves her pound of flesh for all of Cato’s bullshit.

“Ms. King,” he tries again, eyeing her steadily and only continuing when juts her chin at him, “I mean no offense, but from what you’ve told me, Cato has outwitted you, overpowered you, at every turn. Your skills are formidable, yes, and more than capable of protecting Hell’s Kitchen, but Cato is beyond your capabilities, I’m afraid. If he wanted you dead, he could have accomplished that at any time. He’s playing with you, Ms. King, and when he’s had his fun, you won’t be a match for him.”

She wants to deny that, wants to let the electricity zipping down her spine and prickling the tips of her fingers do the talking for her. She wants to prove him wrong in every possible way. Only – only he’s not exactly wrong, is he? Fuck. When has Michaela ever come out on top against Cato? Maybe once, if you count saving Grace, but she barely left on a scratch on him then and he nearly killed her. And that’s him just _toying with her_. He hasn’t even taken her seriously all this time.

Michaela swallows again, the fingers of her free hand twitching against her thigh. Sparks skitter down the length of her jeans harmlessly, fizzling out against the worn wooden flooring of the hallway. Matt presses tighter to her side but doesn’t say a word, letting her handle this herself. And she’s grateful for that, for him, but god, does she wish she didn’t have to be the one to say this.

“…you’re right. You’re right. I’m not a match for Cato. You’re another wizard, you know all his tricks, I get it. It’s just…” She trails off, unsure how to proceed now that she’s been thoroughly knocked off the high ground.

Matt, as usual, picks up the slack for her.

“Wouldn’t a partnership make sense still?” he asks. “Michaela and I know this city. Better than you, better than this Cato. If you want to take on the bulk of the fighting, I won’t stop you, but a guide or two couldn’t hurt, right?”

“Your offer is generous,” Mordo says, grinning again, probably on surer footing with Michaela scrambling to find her own. “Truly. But I would not want to put you at risk any more than you’ve already endured. Cato will be brought to justice. You’ve nothing more to worry about.”

With that, he nods to both of them and turns on his heel, striding down the hall and—

Magic-circles himself the hell out of there, before either of them can so much as take a step towards him.

Michaela sags against Matt the moment it registers that this is _over_, tucking her face into his neck like she’s wanted to do since he got here. The sharp scent of his cologne tickles her nose, has her making a face into his skin, and she feels him laugh more than hears it, rumbling beneath the hand she’s slid up to rest over his heart. The tension doesn’t leave her shoulders or her jaw, not instantly, but it lessons, especially when Matt slings an arm around her and tucks her neatly into his side.

“That was… interesting,” he murmurs, nosing aside the flyaway hairs at her temple, which always makes her smile and giggle like an idiot and now’s no different.

“That’s the polite description, sure.”

“I’d say we at least got one good thing from it, but I know you, and I doubt you’ll let the Cato issue resolve itself without interfering.”

“You say that like you’re not on the same damn page, Murdock.”

“You have me there, King. Still, it’s not something we can tackle right now. And I remember something about a date tonight…?”

That perks Michaela right up. “Shit, date night! Yes, yeah, let’s do that, I made _actual food _for you and nothing burned, we’ve gotta like, savor that.”

Matt huffs another laugh and gestures towards the inside of her apartment. “Lead the way.”

Michaela, making a split-second decision to let herself have tonight with her boyfriend, to leave the superhero shit at the door, grins up at him and does just that.


	23. interlude iv | michaela and the itsy bitsy black widow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaela meets another Avenger. Awkward banter happens. Peter is rendered speechless. Good times are had mainly by a certain redheaded super spy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place somewhere between chapter eighteen and nineteen, where the wizard situation is less pressing and Matt and Michaela are building their relationship. Unlike the Thor one, this one actually pertains to the ending of this story, so remember this one lmao

When it comes down it, Michaela should have expected this. At least, the _possibility _of it, if not the finer details. She spends so much of time envisioning worst possible scenarios, and yet – this never even occurred to her, not once.

_This_, of course, being the current situation where she’s dangling from the half-dropped ladder of a fire-escape and Natasha Romanoff, AKA the Black Widow, AKA the most terrifyingly competent woman in New York, is standing at the mouth of the alleyway, arms crossed, lips quirked into the beginnings of a either an amused smile or a predatory smirk.

“Uh,” Michaela says, with all the eloquence of the skittish, ever-so-unfortunate misshapen deer she currently resembles. Her feet are swinging from her latest attempt at using some sort of momentum to hoist herself back up the ladder, she’s undoubtedly sweating clean through her suit, and she’s almost positive her mask has slipped and is only covering half her face, maybe less.

The Black Widow lifts a brow at her predicament, her eyes sweeping over Michaela from head to twitching toe. She’s kitted out in her usual gear, black catsuit a counterpoint to the vibrant red of her hair and the luminous green of her eyes. Her hair’s grown out since Michaela last caught a glimpse of her on the news, cut just below her shoulders and expertly styled so that not a single strand is out of place.

And then there’s Michaela, looking like a fool, as per usual.

One day she’ll meet an Avenger when she isn’t externalizing her _hot mess _vibe, and her self-confidence will be all the better for it.

“Do I need to get a broom?” the Black Widow asks, her voice pitched just loud enough for Michaela to hear her clearly. The amusement’s coming out full force now.

A broom? Michaela glances down at herself, frowning, then – Ah. Right. A broom, like you’d use to knock a pesky pet down from an unsupervised perch. She lets her gaze drop further, down to the ground. Can’t be _that _far of a drop. She’ll just, you know, bend her knees, absorb some of the shock. Right? Totally, that’s justifiable.

“No, no, no, that won’t be necessary—” Like it’s a genuine _offer_, fuck her life. Michaela grimaces to herself behind what’s remaining of her mask. Her fingers flex around the rusted metal rung of the ladder, gauging the tender soreness of her upper arms and shoulders. _Hanging out _isn’t gonna be an option for that much longer – her upper body strength has always been a little lacking, she’ll admit it, but in all fairness, it’s never been much of an issue before she got into the hero gig. Where the hell’s Spider-Child when she really needs him?

_Up or down, dumbass, pick one! _

She picks down, because the possibility of falling on her ass and-or face is still preferable to having the Black Widow witness her pathetic struggle to haul herself up onto the first landing of the fire escape. She lets go and doesn’t actually have time to brace herself (should’ve done that _before_, probably), so she wobbles on the landing, hissing out a sharp exhale at the resulting jolt of pain that knifes through her ankles and calves. _Fuck_, don’t let her have a limp, don’t make this worse than it already is—

By the time she’s standing upright, tucking one foot up against the opposite leg because it fucking stings and with her luck she probably did fuck up her ankle, the Black Widow is much closer, only a few feet away. Michaela checks a flinch as she locks eyes with her; she’s silent on her feet and that’s not remotely surprising, but that doesn’t mean she was prepared for the reality of it. Like, yeah, Matt’s got the ninja thing going on, but when he’s just Matt he makes an effort to make at least _some _noise, so Michaela doesn’t jump right out of her skin whenever he walks over to her. The Widow has a different mentality, and that’s cool, that’s fantastic, she shouldn’t compromise herself for anyone, let alone one slapdash vigilante from Hell’s Kitchen who she just caught dangling from a fire escape like a whole-ass idiot.

Michaela takes a breath, grits her teeth and resists the urge to shove her smarting hands into her pockets. She can be professional about this. It’s not necessarily _in her nature _to be professional and poised, but there’s a first time for everything, yeah?

Well. _Blackout _can do that, at least. So, she has that to fall back on, never mind the erratic thumping of her heart and the blood rushing in her ears. Those are just. You know. Background problems. Nothing that’s going to stop her from making a not-terrible impression on arguably the most threatening of the Avengers.

“Don’t see you around here too often,” Michaela says, aiming for nonchalant and hitting somewhere around _high school freshman trying to get college kid to think they’re cool_. Could be worse. “Anything I can do for you, or are you just passing through…?”

“Call me Natasha,” says the Black Widow, her smile small but no less arresting, “since I’m going to go ahead and call you Michaela. It is Michaela, isn’t it?”

Michaela knows it’s a rhetorical question. Rogers confirmed that Stark outed her to the rest of the Avengers, there’s no reason _Natasha _wouldn’t be a hundred percent sure of her identity. Still, she can’t help but nod, rubbing a hand over her cheek sheepishly, which turns out to be a terrible decision because she definitely scraped her fingers raw on the ladder and the brush of abused skin over her mask is more or less agony. _Fuck everything_.

“Then, uh, is there anything I can do for you, Natasha?” Michaela tries again. She debates the merits of getting rid of the mask and goggles altogether, figures it won’t make a different either way and shoves her goggles onto the crown of her head. The mask slips down the rest of the way and hangs loosely around her neck. It’s just them in the alley, and the Black Widow understands secrets better than most.

“We’ll get to that,” Natasha replies. She makes a sharp gesture between Michaela and the ladder above her. “First, I’d like to hear how you ended up like that.”

Michaela freezes. “Um. That’s. Can I ask why you’d—”

“Call it professional curiosity. That, and some of my colleagues seem to have a vested interest in your well-being. I’d like to give them a reassuring report when I get back to the Tower.”

A vested interest. Okay, that’s… not wild at all. Is Thor still talking about her coming around to the Tower? Is _Rogers_?

“Oh,” Michaela breathes. _Oh_, she’s going to have a heart attack in this disgusting alley and it’s going to be Captain America’s fault all over again. And this time his smile isn’t even in the same borough! Matt can never get wind of this, _never_, he’ll laugh himself hoarse over it and then tease her about for the rest of her fucking life. “Well, in that case… It’s, uh. Not a long a story. There’s a” – she waves her hand absently, gesturing towards to the rooftop – “there’s this cat? I keep seeing signs for it all over the neighborhood and it’s been missing for a while, apparently, and I saw it while I was, uh, patrolling tonight. It kind of freaked when it noticed me and went tearing off across the roof—”

“You were already on the roof?”

Michaela blinks, considering that. Is it weird for her to be up there when she’s like, not naturally inclined towards heights? Like Peter is, or even Matt? Maybe. Either way – “Yup, I was listening to this,” and she tugs the police scanner from her sweatshirt pocket, waving it a bit for Natasha to see. It’s nothing impressive, and Natasha hardly bats an eye. Michaela tucks it away again, a little chagrined.

“Half the time I don’t bother with it ‘cause I’m out with Daredevil, right? He’s got his own warning system for all the crime that happens around here, and I just follow his lead. But he’s, um, kind of busy at the moment.” Or, well, Matt Murdock is – Nelson & Murdock have a huge case coming up, and Michaela convinced Matt to cut back on the vigilantism until it’s settled, that she’d cover for him in the meantime. She shrugs. “So, I was out on my own and figured it’d give me something of a leg up out here.”

“And the cat?”

“Caught it out of the corner of my eye,” Michaela says. “It’s fluffy and white, kind of stands out against all the shit and bricks, and I recognized it from the posters.” She doesn’t add that she knows it belongs to the eight-year-old girl who lives a floor below her and that she’s been looking for it for the past two weeks without much success, until tonight. Somehow, she’s still pretty sure that Natasha can discern the truth from just staring into her soul and sifting through all the bullshit that much clutter it up. It’s not comforting in the least, but hey, that’s dealing with her superheroes for you. Especially ones as high caliber as the Black Widow. “Like I said, I went after it, it spooked and made a mad dash for freedom. Leapt right onto the next roof. I tried to follow, and…”

And nearly plunged to her death. She’s damn lucky the fire escape was even there, and that her trajectory had her clipping one of the landings instead of hitting the broad side of the building right next to it. Yeah, it knocked the air out of her lungs and hurt like a bitch, and _yeah_, she had to scramble to even get a grip on the bottom of the ladder, but. She’s not dead, so. That’s something. And now she knows that parkouring her way across the city’s rooftops isn’t a viable mode of travel for her.

Everything can be a learning experience if you ignore the fact that you almost turned yourself into an unflattering heap of broken bones and blood in the middle of a random alley in Hell’s Kitchen.

(More to the point, though, this is another thing Matt won’t be getting wind of if she can help it. He has enough ammo when it comes to her reckless idiocy, he doesn’t need anything else, especially not when he’s actually toned down his own death-wish-like behavior these last couple months)

“No wonder you’re a Captain America fangirl.”

Michaela snaps out of her thoughts, flushing as she takes in the smirk Natasha’s sporting. “Rogers tell you that?”

“No, not in so many words. He’s a nice guy, he wouldn’t call anyone out like that. But I’m an excellent judge of character, and if I had to pick an Avenger for you to go starry-eyed over, it’s Rogers.” She tils her head, considering. “Although you do remind me of Hawkeye more. You haven’t met him, I take it?”

“Hawkeye? Uh, nope, not that I’m aware of. Saw him walking his dog, or someone’s dog anyway, when I was in Bed-Stuy about a year ago, but I didn’t like, get a chance to talk to him or anything.” Michaela slow-blinks again. “I remind you of _Hawkeye_?”

“It’s not exactly a compliment,” Natasha admits, rolling her eyes. “He’s got the self-preservation instincts of a five-year-old. He also thought taking on the Russian mob occupying Bed-Stuy over a dog, by himself and without his bow, was a good idea.”

“Ah.”

That makes more sense, then. She can’t say she knows much about Hawkeye beyond him being one hell of a shot, but, well. It’s not shocking to hear how he really is in his everyday life. The Avengers must have flaws of their own, some of them less obvious than Stark’s.

“On the other hand,” Natasha continues, and she’s – grinning? That’s, yeah, that’s a grin, a pretty damn fond one, too. It reminds her a little of the stupid cute look on Rogers face when he was mooning over James in that café, but more refined. Or dignified, at least. Michaela’s kind of starstruck over seeing it on Natasha’s face, of all people. “He’s the best man I’ve ever met, even counting Rogers. So, not exactly an insult, either. Take it however you’d like.”

And the flush is back for an entirely different reason. Aw, geez, what a thing to hear from the Black Widow. She wants to meet Hawkeye now, too, which is annoying, because it means she’s reconsidering her stance on never stepping foot in Avengers Tower. That’s. Ugh. Rogers is going to be smug about it if she ends up going, she can _feel it_.

Shaking herself out slightly, Michaela tucks that away for later, returning her attention to the situation at hand. “Alright, well. Thank you? Maybe? But, um, I really gotta ask again. Did you need me for something specific? ‘Cause I’m more than happy to lend a hand, or, you know, keep shooting the shit with you, if that’s something…”

_Shooting the shit_. Because that’s professional superhero language. God, sometimes Michaela wishes she could surgically remove the fucking foot from her fucking mouth, it would eliminate so many of her problems.

But Natasha doesn’t do more than quirk a brow at her awkward phrasing. “I thought you might’ve clued in by now, Michaela. I’m here for _you_.”

“…I think you’ve probably pegged me as a genuine idiot by this point, so could you elaborate on that? In small words?”

That gets a huff of laughter from her, and wow, Michaela has peaked. She got the Black Widow to laugh! At her expense, sure, but that’s par for the course. It feels almost as good as making James crack a smile, honestly, which. Says something about her priorities that she isn’t going to delve too deeply into at this point in time.

“You made quite the impression on our resident super soldier, and before that, you got up close and personal with the God of Thunder. That warrants a closer look at Blackout, in my opinion. Stark did the leg work of checking into your alter ego, but I wanted to meet you in person. Excellent judge of character, remember?”

“Is this…” _Don’t say it, don’t say it, that’s not what this is and you know it_— “is this like the superhero version of the shovel talk?”

Fucking _fuck_, she needs a better filter.

“Unless you’re planning on going after our dear captain’s virtue—”

“What? Oh, fuck, no, that’s, I’m not—_I have a boyfriend_!”

Natasha’s eyes are fucking glowing with mirth even in the dim evening light and the slanting shadows of the alley. “Then it’s not a shovel talk. Though I suppose you know if you decide to do anything _untoward _to my teammates…?”

Oh, good, she’s sweating again, and it’s not from exertion this go around. Fun times. “Yeah, I got that impression already, thanks.”

Natasha shrugs again, unruffled like she has been for the entirety of this conversation. “I doubt we’ll have a problem, you’re not the type to fly off the handle like that.” Michaela decides not to ask how Natasha’s come to that conclusion; no need to make herself even more paranoid. “But you’re an enhanced individual living in New York who’s had dealings with SHIELD twice now and met two Avengers on separate occasions. Any one of those things would’ve put you on my radar, but the combination means I’m… let’s say it means I’m interested in getting to know you better. And from more than just your paper trail and Stark’s toys.”

“Is this a test? This feels like a test. And I gotta tell you, I was a shit test-taker in high school. Still am, honestly.”

“Hm, no. Not quite a test. I was just here to get a clearer picture of you and your intentions. And I’m satisfied for now.”

“Satisfied?”

“Mm-hm.”

“O-_kay_. Um. I’m… glad?”

“You should be, Michaela King.”

Ominous. Great. Michaela darts a glance over her shoulder, idly wondering where the ever-loving fuck that cat went. She’d really like to get that thing back to its owner, the girl’s been in tears near-constantly since Princess ducked out of the open window of the apartment and didn’t come back from her stroll. From the looks of it, Princess has been fairing pretty well for herself, but Michaela noted the dirt rubbed into her fur and figures she could do with a ride home about now. Turning back to Natasha, Michaela conjures up her least customer-service-worthy smile.

“Well,” Michaela says, “happy to hear I pass muster. Anything else I can help with?”

Natasha’s expression is knowing though not particularly confrontational. She lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, turns away as though she’s about to disappear into the night. Then she pauses, cocks her head. Beckons for Michaela to come closer, which. She does. Reluctantly. And as soon as she’s close enough, Natasha ducks down, grabs something that only registers as a blur of white until it’s deposited neatly into Michaela’s protesting arms.

“Um.”

It’s fucking _Princess_. Michaela’s been staring into the photo-copied version of those baby blues for weeks; she’d know them anywhere. The cat only squirms a little, giving Michaela a baleful glare before she twists to settle herself more comfortably in Michaela’s hold, where she proceeds to – go to sleep. The fuck.

Michaela drags her eyes away from the cat and stares at Natasha, mystified. The woman merely slants another crooked smile at her, unwilling to share her cat-hunting secrets, it seems. That’s fine, Michaela can live with that. She wouldn’t be surprised if that’s one of Natasha’s powers, despite her being touted as one of the only non-powered Avengers, but hell if she’s going to pry. She’s somehow managed not to land on the Black Widow bad side, and unnecessary questions seem like a great way to correct that mistake

“Thank you,” she says, in what is definitely not a squeak. Princess twitches an ear in probably disagreement and Michaela grimaces at the back of the cat’s head. “That’s, uh, really nice of you.”

“Sorting out that problem is the least I can do for crashing your patrol,” Natasha says with a flippant hand gesture. She turns to disappear again, then glances back over her shoulder. “Get my number from Thor. We should keep in touch.”

Michaela just. Isn’t going to argue with at. Not even a little. She’s in the process of maneuvering Princess to one arm (which she does not appreciate in the slightest), making a grab for her phone, when it dawns on her that she made a promise. Sort of. Enough of a promise that it gets her to pause now, staring hard at Natasha’s retreating figure.

“Wait, wait!” she rushes out, clutching Princess tight to her chest as she hurries to close the distance between her and Natasha. Thankfully, Princess doesn’t scratch her eyes out (the goggles are off, after all, things could get pretty damn messy) and Natasha turns back to her, curious.

Michaela draws out her phone and thumbs to her contacts, hovering over Peter’s. She looks at Natasha, smiles sheepishly. “Um, this is gonna sound real dumb, but, uh. I told my friend the next time I randomly ran into an Avenger, I’d call him? Like, obviously, you don’t gotta agree to this, you can walk away and I won’t even mention this to him, I swear—”

“Just call him,” Natasha says, then narrows her eyes and flicks the phone a vaguely murderous glance. “Unless it’s that child you work with at the convenience store.”

“Oh, Emmett? Oh, fuck, no, god he doesn’t have my number and he’s never getting it. This is, uh. He’s. It’s Spider-Man, if that helps at all.”

Surprisingly, that _does _help, because Natasha nods at her to go ahead and. Well. Michaela can’t really back out of it now.

She presses the call button and waits about three seconds for Peter to pick up.

“_Michaela! Hey, not that I’m not happy to hear from you, but it’s a school night, dude!_”

Natasha presses her lips together, politely ignoring the way Michaela tightens her grip on the phone and swears under her breath. Sure, Peter didn’t _know _she’s not alone, but the kid’s a genius, okay, he should maybe have thought to use her hero name when she’s calling from her _hero phone _at seven at night. But. That’s not the problem here. Natasha knows her secret, so there’s no harm done, really, even though Michaela would very much like to shake some sense into Peter the next time they meet up.

She takes a deep breath, releases it just as slowly. “Kid, just FYI? You’re on speaker phone, and Natasha Romanoff is two feet away from me.”

Michaela’s expecting the same sort of screeching she got over the phone after she invited him down to Hell’s Kitchen, or when she answered him on Matt’s phone post the first SHIELD shit-fest, but. There’s nothing. Total, ear-ringing silence. Michaela exchanges a baffled glance with Natasha, who only blinks at the phone in Michaela’s hand, her expression unreadable. She might me amused, but it’s must less prominent then it was earlier.

“Spidey—”

The line goes dead.

He fucking. He fucking _hung up on her_. He hung up on the _Black Widow_.

“He made me promise to call him,” Michaela says weakly, more than a little helpless in the face of whatever the fuck issue Peter is having over this. She’s just. Where does she even _go _with this? Should she call him back?

“Hm,” is all Natasha says on the matter. Then: “Better luck next time, then. I should stop by Hawkeye’s while I’m out, anyway. Make sure he’s not comatose on the living room floor or overfeeding his dog. Have a nice night, Blackout.”

And with that, she really does vanish into the shadows, and even though Michaela knows she’s stepping into the light of the nearby streetlamps, Natasha just – disappears. Michaela blinks hard, shakes her head, then looks back down at her phone.

_Any reason you didn’t wanna talk? _she texts him.

A moment later, her phone _chirps _with his response: **THE BLACK WIDOW **

_Yeah. The Black Widow. An Avenger. You wanted me to call you if that ever happened again…? _

**IT WAS THE BLACK WIDOW MICHAELA**

_You didn’t even hear her voice! You didn’t have to freak out like that!_

**LIKE YOU DID ANY BETTER**

Well. He’s not that far off the mark. Not that she’s going to _tell him _that. _I TALKED TO HER which is more than you did! _

**BUT BLACK WIDOW **

_I’m not getting stuck in this loop, kid_

_Hey on a not so different note, you ever wanna visit Avengers Tower with me?_

**asasdhfwefeksdk**

**the tOWER**

**WHERE THE AVENGERS LIVE????**

_Some of them, yeah. You in or not? _

**SIGN ME UP SIGN ME UP MICHAELA OMG ILL DIE**

_Lmao so will I, we’ll have a join funeral that Stark will probably fund himself _

**its a dream come tru**

Weird dreams for a fifteen-year-old, but Michaela can’t say she’s any more normal than he is on that front. And at least she won’t be the only one freaking the fuck out if she brings Peter along to the Tower, which seems like it’s probably going to happen regardless of her mounting anxiety. Natasha didn’t say anything about it, but if she’s _reporting _to Rogers and Thor, and maybe the others… Fuck. Michaela’s gotta show her face sometime. Matt might want to tag along, which. Could either makes thing infinitely less complicated, or the complete opposite of that.

Guess she’ll have to wait and see.

Riiiiight after she gets Princess home safe and sound. Tucking the cat a little more securely to her chest, Michaela takes a moment to orient herself, checking the sign that's just barely visible at the mouth of the alley. Won't take too long to get home from here, so long as she doesn't take the scenic route or attempt another rousing parkour session. Yeah, once the cat is dealt with she can focus more on her extrememly vague and underdeveloped plan to maybe possibly visit Avengers Towers. With Peter. And hopefully Matt.

Fuck, she hopes Matt agrees to go. She's not sure she'll survive the event if he's not with her. 

But first, Princess. 

And with that, Michaela redoes her mask and hurries out of the alley, nearly trips when she only just remembers her busted ankle, readjusts herself, then starts for her apartment complex. Limping. Son of a _bitch_. 


	24. chapter nineteen | michaela's home for wayward not-mutants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little break before the upcoming angst. 
> 
> Michaela meets a new friend and gets an offer she really wants to refuse.

Michaela meets her fourth Inhuman (that she knows for sure) on a random Thursday in November, during the aftermath of a chance encounter with another _enhanced individual_.

She’s splayed out, half in the street and half on the sidewalk, one lens of her goggles cracked, a leg half-drawn towards her chest, the other ragdoll-like and effectively useless. Matt’s – somewhere else. Fighting the good fight still, probably. The enhanced individual made copies of themselves and frankly Michaela couldn’t keep track of who the original was after about five minutes of fighting. Matt could, because he’s Matt and there was something unique about the heartbeat or the breathing pattern of the guy, or something else stupidly specific that Michaela would never have picked up on had she been by herself.

She really hit the jackpot with Matt, Christ.

Michaela manages to keep the groaning to a minimum as she rolls herself onto her stomach. She’s not too heavily injured, from what she can tell; scrapes and bruises, mostly, and a headache from when one of the doubles clocked her from behind before she could throw out any electricity. The busted lens is from hitting the ground and cracking the plastic on the edge of the sidewalk. Better that than her face, although replacing them is going to be a pain. And Matt _still _can’t convince his guy to take on another super-suit-seeking client.

There’s SHIELD, probably, but uh, nope. Not happening. Even if Michaela kind of wants to see how Lincoln’s been doing…

_Not the point right now_, she reminds herself, getting her legs under her so she can push herself upright.

And then she blinks, confused, because that looks an awful lot like a hand hovering in front of her face, except Matt’s definitely not back yet. And this hand is on the smaller side, and also – not white. Or gloved, for that matter. Huh. Michaela tips her head back, ignoring the throbbing at the back of her skull, squinting against the glare of the overhead streetlights.

“The hell?” Michaela blurts out. “I know you!”

The kid – and they’re a kid, alright, somewhere around Peter’s age, which isn’t hard to tell even with their features thrown into shadow and made indistinct – practically beams at the admission, their smile just about the brightest thing Michaela’s ever seen. They crouch down so that they’re closer to eye-level with Michaela, tucking both hands into the pockets of their offensively-yellow bomber jacket.

“You remember! That’s super neat, I wasn’t expecting that. We were both totally out of it at the hospital—”

“They had us on the good drugs,” Michaela agrees, sort of wishing she had access to them right about now. The headache’s nothing serious – Blackout’s had more than one concussion, she’s like an expert on it now – but it’s distracting and making her feel mildly nauseated with the way her neck is craned back to look at this kid. Who she _does _remember from the hospital, right after they’d been swept off the street and tagged-and-bagged following the Terrigen Mist attack.

She squints harder.

They were roommates for about a day or two. Didn’t talk much if at all, though Michaela recalls that they were both ragging on the doctors, annoyed they weren’t allowed to leave until they’d been poked and prodded and stuck with ten thousand needles. Michaela doesn’t have a name, but that smile is pretty recognizable.

“I’m Bailey!” the kid says, sticking their hand out again. For shaking, Michaela guesses, which is. Unnecessary, honestly, but polite. So that deserves some brownie points. “Bailey Flores. You don’t gotta give me _your _real name, ‘cause you’re a hero and all, gotta protect that secret identity.”

Shit, that’s right. Michaela’s in hero mode, she shouldn’t—

Wait. She’s in _hero mode_. And her costume isn’t pathetically shredded this time, how did this kid – _Bailey _– even put it together that she’s the same grouchy college student from the hospital?

Some of her thoughts must show on her face, because Bailey laughs and rocks back on their heels, brown eyes crinkling with mirth.

“I’ve known it was you since they got a good shot of Blackout without the goggles in the Bulletin. You have like, the _prettiest _eyes, hazel’s pretty much always been my favorite eye color, and with your hair and all it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

“Huh. You’re, uh. Pretty sharp.”

“Nah,” Bailey says, grinning still, “just a big fan.”

Michaela nods, letting that go. A fan, sure. One who just happened to get caught up in the Terrigen Mist and room with her at the hospital. A fan who went through the exact same tests and baffled just as many specialists. There’s nothing inherently malicious about any of this, and Michaela’s not exactly picking up any murder-y vibes from Bailey, but. Well. The paranoia’s surging again and it’s hell beating it down with logic alone. Still, Michaela grasps Bailey’s hand and shakes, because it’s a social nicety she can’t excuse herself out of at the moment and because it gives her just enough leverage to drag herself upright.

“Not that I’m not, ya know, ecstatic to see you’re doing well, but I gotta ask. The hell are you doing out here so late, kid?”

Bailey shrugs, jumping to their feet as Michaela shakily gets to hers. “I live around here. Heard you and Daredevil gettin’ into it with some baddies and thought I’d come out and say hi. Hi,” they add, laughing.

Michaela feels herself soften, a smile tugging at her mouth under the mask. Bailey’s young, shorter than Michaela by a couple of inches. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, messy hair a few shades darker than Michaela’s, cropped close to their ears. They’re not much like Peter beyond the endearing _youngness _of them, honestly, and Michaela still doesn’t think she does all that well with kids, but fuck if Bailey isn’t adorable. And probably impulsive as hell, given that they went out in the middle of the night to gamely reveal they know Blackout’s secret identity just after said superhero and her pal faced off with some so-called baddies. Which is. Not great, all things considered.

Maybe they’re more like Peter than previously thought. Maybe Michaela somehow attracts reckless, golden-hearted children with her personal brand of dumbassery.

She internally winces; god, that’s the last thing she needs. She really, _really _isn’t qualified to be any sort of caretaker or guidance… person. Like a role model or. Anything where she has to be a good influence on developing minds. She’s lucky she hasn’t completely screwed up Peter, what with her actively encouraging the kid to risk his hide while duking it out with wannabe super villains.

On that note, Michaela has decided that she never really wants to be introduced to Aunt May. She might like, spontaneously combust on the spot if she had to straight-up lie to that woman’s face regarding Peter’s _extracurricular activities_.

“Hi yourself,” Michaela eventually replies. “Always happy to meet a fan.”

At least, that’s been the case the two other times this has happened. Though no one’s come out and just said _they’re a fan_, really; Bailey’s a first on that account. Matt’s gotten people throwing themselves at him – and she means that literally. A women, probably drunk, maybe also stoned, saw Matt-as-Daredevil one night while he was lurking (he _lurks_, and anything he has to say to the contrary is just plain lies) and just. Launched herself at him. If the guy’s reflexes were any less amazing, she would’ve gone sailing right into the window of the storefront he was loitering outside of, but he’s _Matt _so he caught her and then like. Proceeded to give her a lecture on the dangers of binge-drinking. Or something. Michaela was laughing too loud to hear every word when he was recounting the story to her, and whenever she asks about it now, he just smiles and shrugs, like _we all have our secrets, Michaela_.

He’s an ass and she loves him for it. Just loves _him_. God, she’s gotten sappy in her old age.

Anyway.

Fuck, Michaela might’ve misjudged the head injury, she’s got the attention span of a gopher right now. At least Bailey’s not judging her; they’re just smiling, amused, as Michaela no doubt stares off into the distance and fantasizes about being able to fall asleep with Matt on the couch and then inevitably wake up with a crick in her neck and a gentle reprimand from Matt _the hypocrite_.

“Er, you’re gonna have to excuse me,” Michaela says, playing it off with a laugh that grates on a handful of nerves that aren’t dedicated to the usual aches and pains she’s got going on. “I’m not at the, uh, the top of my game after that fight. Should probably see if Daredevil wouldn’t mind patching me up, actually…”

“Wait, wait!” Bailey darts out a hand, grabbing Michaela’s wrist before she can so much as take a step back. Michaela blinks rapidly, bringing Bailey back into focus. She frowns, but Bailey’s grin is persistent. “Okay, I lied, I didn’t just come out here to say hi.”

“Somehow, that makes me worry less about you,” Michaela says, probably a bit nonsensically, though Bailey rolls right along without paying her any mind.

“You’re my favorite hero,” they say, emphatic and heartfelt and god Michaela might cry, what the fuck. Heat prickles at her cheeks, the flush high enough that some of it probably peeks out above the mask, though, really, she’s got bigger problems than her tragic inability to accept compliments like a normal person. “And you’re awesome and _so _powerful” – okay, they’re stretching the truth a little, Michaela’s fragile ego will allow it – “and I really, really, _really _wanna be your sidekick!”  
“Sidekick?” Michaela repeats, her mouth shaping the word carefully, like it’s foreign to her. A _sidekick_? She, she can’t have a sidekick, what the hell, that’s like, for heroes who are actually, you know, capable. And have a success rate higher than sixty percent. “You wanna be my sidekick. What – _why_?” A thought niggles at the back of her mind and she backtracks. “Do you even – you have powers?”

“Yup!”

“Uh-huh. I realize it’s a personal question and all, but those would be… what, exactly?”

“I can—” Bailey’s eyes widen to the point where Michaela’s genuinely worried about them popping out of their skull, and it’d be comedic, almost, if not for Bailey abruptly yanking Michaela forward at an angle, spinning her slightly in the process. Which, uh. Gives her the chance to watch as Bailey throws out a hand in front of them, the light of the overhead streetlight – _coalescing _around their fingers, their palm, almost like it liquefies, dripping like golden candle wax from absolutely nowhere, before suddenly solidifying into a disc about the size of a frisbee.

Just in time for a knife to connect with it, the impact a dull _thud _that seems to echo in the near silence of the night.

“_Fuck_,” Michaela hisses with _all the feelings_, before her instincts kick in and she twists out from behind Bailey, kicking the knife from the stunned copy-maker’s loosened grip. It goes sailing out into the shadows and Michaela wastes no time in taking advantage of his surprise and clamping a hand around his forearm, delivering a jolt of electricity with just enough wattage that he seizes up, convulses for a moment, then sinks to the ground with all the grace of a sack of rocks.

He doesn’t get up, though his body twitches with the aftershocks, and Michaela plants a boot against his side to roll him onto his back, just to make sure he’s out. She breathes a sigh of relief seeing that he is, in fact, unconscious. And also, he’s not disappearing, so he _is _the original, which is great news for her. She might have to recalculate her success rate if she keeps this up.

Shoulders sagging from where they’d jumped up near her ears, Michaela spins back to Bailey, arching a brow. A tired, exasperated smile pulls at her mouth.

“So, about those powers…”

Bailey’s beaming again. The disc, or shield, maybe, seems to melt in their hold, though it’s immediately taking shape into something else, like it’s filling a mold. And then suddenly Bailey has a shiny gold knife in their hand, which they flip and grab again, slashing at the air in a mock attack.

“All I need is light and I’m great at offense _and _defense! I’d be like, the perfect sidekick, I even have a hero name picked out! And I can make a costume that compliments yours and—”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up a second.” Michaela can’t stop staring at the knife. It’s. Made entirely out of light. Hardened light. Which is apparently strong enough to take a pretty substantial hit; it didn’t even so much as chip when the blade made contact with it. She’s seen some _out there _powers since she came onto the hero scene, but this one might take the proverbial cake. It shouldn’t be physically possible. At all. And yet here Bailey is, wielding it expertly, and wanting to be her fucking _sidekick_. She’s getting dizzy, and hell, she can’t blame it on the brain damage this time. “Bailey, kid, _fuck_. You’re amazing, that is so goddamn amazing I don’t really have words for it. But you’re, what, fourteen?”

“Fifteen,” Bailey corrects, undaunted by Michaela’s kind of blatant criticism. “My birthday was September 26th.”

Like that makes everything better. Who knows, maybe it does in Bailey’s head. Ugh, they really are like Peter. What’s with the youth these days, wanting to risk their lives battling the forces of evil, instead of risking their lives the normal way, by like, drinking to the point of alcohol poisoning and engaging in unsafe sex.

“You’re fifteen,” Michaela sighs. She wishes she could run her fingers through her hair but as it’s currently braided so that it doesn’t whip around her face during a fight, that’s a no-go. “That’s…” God, she’s a terrible liar. She wants to say _that’s too young _but she _can’t _because of Peter. Fuck it’s still too young but she can’t really say that’s the reason she wants Bailey to drop the sidekick thing. She tries a different track. “I’m not really in the market for a sidekick?”

Oh, good, she could’ve said that with _much _less conviction. That’ll convince Bailey for sure.

Unsurprisingly, Bailey doesn’t look too impressed with her reasoning. That’s fair, neither is Michaela.

“Is anyone really in the market for a sidekick? I think they’re something that just kinda happens. You know?” Bailey spreads their hands, the knife dissolving into nothing as Michaela watches, rapt. Could be a helluva murder weapon in the wrong hands. Ugh, bad thoughts, not the time. “I’m not saying you should be Batman and adopt like ten orphans to be your crime-fighting children, but _one _wouldn’t hurt, right?”

Michaela can see this isn’t getting resolved any time soon. Bailey looks very determined to get on Blackout’s nonexistent payroll and Michaela really does not have the brain power to outthink them right now. Delaying things might be the best option she has, even if the thought of picking up this conversation thread at a later date makes her want to foist the whole thing off on Matt.

“Okay, okay, you make solid points.” Michaela rolls her eyes behind the goggles as she plucks her phone out of her pants pocket and pulls up a new contact. “I’m not taking you on right now, kid, but give me your number and we’ll… get back to this. Eventually. When I’m not sorta-probably suffering from a possible concussion. Yeah?”

Apparently this is more than enough to satisfy Bailey for the time being, because they’re quick to snatch the phone from Michaela’s hand and type in their number. They hold the phone long enough that Michaela guesses they’re sending themselves a text and that’s. Fantastic. There goes any possibility of never having Bailey text her and demand they meet up. Although, if she’s being honest, she feels better knowing another super teen has her number. Has someone to contact if things get rough and they have no one else to turn to. Michaela can be good for that, if nothing else – she’s already attached to Bailey and she’s more than willing to swing by if the kid gets into trouble. Or trouble finds them, the way it usually happens with Peter.

Michaela’s finally gotten Bailey to head home (with the mischievous promise that they’ll be seeing each other again real soon, _yay_) when Matt makes a reappearance, looking only minorly scuffed up from his brawl with the doubles he was chasing. He cocks his head at the unconscious baddie still sprawled out on the road, says nothing for a solid thirty seconds, then simply turns his head towards Michaela and she just. Word vomits at him.

“You’re popular these days,” Matt says once she’s finished.

She scowls, crossing her arms under her chest. “As if. Bailey just has really low standards when it comes to their preferred heroes.”

“I thought we talked about you selling yourself short.”

“I am not sidekick material, Matt. Or, fuck, I’m not what you’d call _worthy _of a sidekick. I’m a small-time vigilante, I’m not even recognized as a legit hero in the eyes of the law. What am I gonna do for that kid besides increase their chances of getting sent to juvie by about a thousand percent?”

“Teach them how to not get caught?”

“Ha ha, that’s hilarious. I’ve been almost arrested twice, Matt. Twice! And SHIELD had to bail me out both times!”

He has to concede that point, though it looks like he’d rather not. Hell, Michaela would rather it not be true, but those are the facts, and it really just cements the fact that she is in no way capable of handling a sidekick. Peter doesn’t exactly count, he’s his own hero and aside from that unfortunate incident with the ID, he’s better at evading outing himself or getting caught than Michaela is by a mile. He’s got those, what does he call them, spidey senses? He can take care of himself, and while Michaela _feels _responsible for him most of the time, she isn’t. Not really. That wouldn’t be the case with Bailey.

“Besides,” Michaela says, pulling out her phone again so she can send an anonymous tip to the police about the copier passed out at her feet. She might send a text to Daisy, too, just to be thorough. “Let’s be real, I’m basically _your _sidekick, Murdock, and I don’t feel like getting into the logistics of a sidekick having a sidekick.”

“Michaela, you are not my—”

“Oh, what’s that? Can’t hear you, Matty, got this nasty ringing in my ears from when this asshole clocked me.”

“You—” Matt pauses. For so long that Michaela looks up from her phone, worried Matt’s picking up on some other in-progress crime. Only, he looks wholly focused on the current situation, turned towards her, his mouth pressed into a thin, tense. “How bad are you hurt?”

Oh.

“Oh,” she says, blinking. “I’m. It’s not, uh. Matt, I’m fine, honestly, you don’t gotta worry about it. I’ll lay on an ice pack later, it’s nothing.”

“_Michaela_.”

Yikes, she made a fucking tactical error with that one. Michaela ducks her head, drops her gaze back to the phone, though she’s lost the plot on whatever she was about to send to Daisy. She hasn’t really been paying attention to the throbbing in her skull for a while now, Bailey was a helluva distraction, but now that she’s thinking about, it fucking hurts. An ice pack might not cut it at this rate. And for once she thought she came out on the other side of a fight without suffering anything serious. Fuck her bad luck.

“We’ll figure out the sidekick problem later,” Matt decides, and Michaela’s inclined to agree with him. Bailey can wait a few days. “For now, let’s go back to my apartment. I have an actual med-kit there.”

“You’re going to hold that over me forever, aren’t you?”

“I’ll plead the fifth on that one.”

“God, you and your lawyer speak…”

Matt doesn’t reply, just holds out his hand. And, well. Michaela’s a simple woman with simple wants. Cashing in on her earlier domestic fantasy is one of those wants at the moment and Matt’s offering it to her, basically – right after they deal with the possible concussion. She takes his hand, laughing a little to herself.

“We’re the least romantic couple ever,” she says, grinning like a fucking fool and a little disappointed that Matt can’t see it.

“I beg to differ,” he says, tugging her closer. “Tenderly caring for one another’s wounds is a pretty popular trope in fiction.”

“Sure, Matty. _Tenderly caring for one another’s wounds_ doesn’t generally involve panic attacks in movies and shit.”

“We’re more realistic,” is all he says, and well, he’s not wrong, she supposes.

At least there won’t be a panic attack tonight, considering it’s not Matt who’s hurt. That’s something.

“Let’s go home.”

“And just leave this guy here?”

Matt considers the copier for a moment. His head cocks again. Then he says, “Cops’ll be here in a minute or two. He’ll keep for that long.” He tugs a little harder on her hand, and she laughs again, happily stepping closer to him. “Like I said, let’s go home.”

“I think I can get on board with that idea now.”


	25. chapter twenty | the end-times are near

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Michaela's plans are derailed in the worst possible way.

“Avengers Tower?”

“Or Stark Tower, whatever. Did he ever like, legally change the name of the building?”

“I don’t think incorrect labeling of architecture is the major issue here, but—”

“Fuck, no, you’re right. Sorry. I just – I think you made a good point before. About Cato.”

Matt’s arms uncross, dropping to his sides. She’s thrown him for a loop, she can tell, because he doesn’t immediately say anything, just. Studies her. Cato was not originally even in the ballpark of this conversation, so she’s not surprised – truth be told, she hadn’t really understood how he factored into it at first, either. But Michaela’s had a long while to think this through, and seeing as it’s been a few weeks since Mordo unceremoniously dropped them from the wizard case without any tangible results, she figures it’s time they bring in the big guns.

Meaning the Avengers. If that wasn’t already desperately obvious.

“I can’t handle him myself. I admitted to that,” Michaela says, sitting up from where she’s been sprawled across Matt’s unfairly comfortable couch. “_Karl_ says he’s got it covered, but I don’t know him and I don’t trust him. Which means I’d like to see this through myself. But, like I said, doing this on my own is only going to end badly.”

“And you’ve decided that we’re going to ignore the three other supers we happen to have an in with already?”

Ah. Yes. Michaela’s considered that, Luke and Jessica and Peter, all of them gearing up together and having a go at Dumbledore’s distinctly evil cousin. And she’s not even opposed to it, really – she’s done big jobs with all of them before and they work together like a dream. They get all the teamwork points, especially Luke and Jessica. It’s just. Well.

“I think this is… bigger than us. Less small-fry, more _trophy-fish-mounted-over-the-fire-place._”

There’s a pause. A lengthy one.

Michaela contemplates the merits of shocking herself unconscious, then turns her head to groan into the back of the couch. “_You know what I mean_,” she says directly into the cushion, knowing Matt’ll pick up on it regardless of how muffled her voice is.

The couch dips beside her, signaling that Matt’s abandoned his post staring with brooding intensity out the window (never mind the fact that he can’t actually _see _out the window). His warm hand slides around to squeeze reassuringly at the back of her neck, and she sighs, the tension already starting to bleed out of her.

“He’s that dangerous, huh?”

“Pretty sure he fits right in with the usual band of world domination-seeking assholes the Avengers take down on the regular, Matty.”

Another squeeze, and Michaela’s a fucking touch-starved loser, but she latches right on to the feeling of each individual finger, the prickling warmth against her skin, the grounding pressure. A shudder runs through her and she’d be embarrassed – _more embarrassed_, anyway – but Matt barely reacts beyond adjusting his grip on her and scooting to close the gap between them on the couch, pressing their thighs together. Her mouth quirks into the faintest of smiles; Matt’s too good for her, he really is, but hell if she’s going to be the one to tap out of this relationship. Matt’s stuck with her until he decides otherwise.

“I trust your judgement,” he says, and Michaela looks at him, at the soft, determined smile he’s wearing, the openness of his expression. “I trust _you_, Michaela. If you say this is Avengers-level villainy, then we’ll take a trip to Manhattan.”

“I love you,” she says, because it’s true, and because it might never have been truer than it is in this moment.

Matt’s smile turns more or less blinding, and she’s saying that with full knowledge of what the Mighty Thor and Captain America look like when they’re being their happy-golden-retriever selves.

“I love you, too.” He lifts his hand from her neck only to brush the hair out of her eyes, tucking it neatly behind her ear, his hand lingering as it drags down the line of her jaw. “I wouldn’t consider haranguing the Avengers for just anyone, you know?”

She does know that. Forget the teasing for a second – she _knows_, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Matt cares about her just as much as she does about him. Foggy is Matt’s best friend, there was never any competition about that, but he loves her. She might’ve been insecure about it in the beginning, might have worried she was wading in much deeper than he was willing to go, but. Matt’s an all-in type of guy when he loves someone, she’s come to realize; he’s not coy with his feelings once he’s decided to act on them. Which she appreciates. A lot. Because god knows she’s been with enough people who didn’t like to _spell things out _for their partners.

She isn’t always sure she _deserves _Matt, but she doesn’t question him. Ever. Not about this.

Laughing a little, Michaela leans forward to press a kiss to Matt’s cheek, to which he chuckles and turns his head to catch her mouth properly. She can’t help smiling, her happiness plain and unfettered, bubbling up quick in her throat; Matt lets her laugh it out, resting their foreheads together, his warm hands rubbing gentle at the pulse points on either side of her neck.

“Someone’s gotta invite the kid along…”

That draws a sigh out of Matt, though he’s grinning with fond exasperation while he’s doing it. “What a scene we’re going to make. Blackout, Daredevil, and Spider-Man walking into Stark’s ridiculous tower…”

“There’s a joke in there somewhere, but I have a feeling it’d somehow be at my expense so I’m not gonna dig for it.”

“That’s kind of you. For once.”

Michaela let outs a half-hearted _ha _of disbelief, but, well. He’s not wrong. It’s not exactly _on-brand _for Michaela to pass up the chance to make a self-deprecating quip. Now isn’t really the time, though, and even her pitiful self-esteem seems a little quicker on the uptake because of it.

“Anyway,” Matt says, sitting back a bit, his hands sliding down to grip lightly at her wrists. “Should we? Suit up for this, I mean. A few of the Avengers know you out of your costume, right?”

Michaela blinks. “But they don’t know you. Or Peter.”

_Matt _only just got properly introduced to the kid, once Michaela had convinced him that Matt was as trustworthy as they come. Peter had met him as Daredevil, obviously, but he’s wanted to know _Matt Murdock the lawyer/boyfriend_, and he couldn’t really do that as Spider-Man. Or, well, he could have, but the kid’s so damn earnest that he would have felt entirely too guilty about the supposed power imbalance, so. The three of them are in on each other’s secrets these days, but entrusting them to the Avengers is – a different beast altogether.

Then again… Michaela’s thought about this. Tony Stark (probably through hacking facial-recognition software from SHIELD or the CIA or whatever) figured out her identity from a half-masked photo of her with Thor, because curiosity may not have killed the cat but it definitely drives the billionaire super-genius insane. She’s regularly thrown in with Daredevil and the others in the news, it wouldn’t be all that odd (well, beyond how fucking _weird _it already is) if Stark went ahead and outed the rest of them. Michaela would feel like a total asshole if that were the case, but it would make things a little simpler for their current situation.

Fuck, maybe texting Thor is actually the best thing she could do right now.

…maybe making Matt text Thor would work, too.

“Michaela?”

Ah, shit. She blinks again, shaking herself out of her thoughts. Matt Murdock really does have the patience of a saint when it comes to her. “I’m… shit, I’m sorry, I just. That’s asking a lot from you two, to ditch the suits.”

“I’m willing to do it if it means you’re more comfortable. I know how much you hate the tabloids going after Blackout. And I doubt Parker would mind since he’d be getting to play nice with Stark in exchange. But it’s your call.”

Right. Her call. That’s great and all, but she doesn’t know what fucking call makes sense here. What’s going to net them the best outcome? It’s true Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff have met her – met Michaela King – but the others only know her through Stark’s frankly unwarranted meddling. And yes, she hates the tabloids with a passion, she told Rogers as much when he suggested she stop by. But. It’s selfish, isn’t it? Forcibly ripping off Matt and Peter’s mask just so she isn’t the butt of another superhero conspiracy theory. Then again, walking in there as themselves, without their personas hanging over their heads… maybe it would un-complicate some things in a viciously complicated situation.

“We could—” Michaela starts, only to cut herself off when she feels her phone vibrating against her thigh. “Shit, sorry,” she mutters, fishing it out and squinting at the screen. It’s her regular phone, so it’s not Peter—

“Ah,” she says, strained. “Fuck.”

Matt tenses beside her but she hesitates on simply blurting out the headline of the Google alert she’s just received; instead, she lightly taps his thigh with her unoccupied hand, silently asking for his patience, which he gives willingly and without complaint. Michaela clicks into the article the alert leads to and skims over it, her heart sinking further into her stomach with ever line.

“Scratch that,” she says, just shy of a groan. “We’re not meeting the Avengers any time soon. Something’s, uh, happened. With the twins? Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver are” – Michaela frowns, swiping up to reread the last paragraph – “or, I mean, they _were _in Europe for something, along with Captain America and the Falcon. Now they’re in Asia and they apparently called in the rest of the team to back them up. Fuck, I haven’t been paying attention to the news recently, I didn’t even know any of them were out of the country…”

What’s even more annoying is that she’d ignored something involving the _twins_. Michaela’s been a little obsessed with them since they made their so-called debut a few months back, single-handled (or double-handedly? Since there’s two of them?) infiltrating and subsequently wiping out a Hydra cell in South America. Scarlet Witch – likely on orders from one of the more senior Avengers – took a moment in the wake of the battle to introduce herself to the local news crew who picked up the scoop. She’d been calm and composed, her lilting voice soft but admirably resolute. Her brother, on the other hand – well, he hardly appeared on camera at all, just fucking _whizzed by_, paused a moment to back up and drop his hero name and wink at the audience, then went right back to chucking Hydra goons into SHIELD transport vehicles.

They’ve done a handful of interviews since announcing themselves as the newest Avengers recruits, and Michaela is struck every time by how _young _they are. They can’t be older than twenty, even with Quicksilver’s silver-gray-white hair and Scarlet Witch’s soulful eyes, and that’s – not strange, necessarily, not when Michaela has seen Peter’s heroics in person, but it’s mildly concerning. The two of them are powerful, Scarlet Witch especially, and yet.

And yet Michaela has to wonder who the hell signed off on them being Avengers at their age. They’ve shared only minor details about their backstory, inconsequential tidbits about how they got their powers (clearly not the full story given their penchant for involving themselves in every Hydra take-down the Avengers have gone on since they joined the team), and Michaela _knows _they’re likely mature beyond their years because of whatever they’ve gone through, the same way Peter is on his best days. She just feels – off about the whole thing. Weirdly protective.

It’s probably residual mom-vibes from her being so freaked out over Peter’s continued wellbeing, but. It’s a thing for her. So, she’s been pretty studious about watching out for them in the news, never mind the fact that she’s never met either of them.

Matt thinks it’s cute of her, so there’s that, at least.

Er, regardless of her mildly creepy fixation, this throws a serious wrench into their plans. _Fuck_. With the Avengers out of town, their options are limited; they could wait for them to get back, sure, but there’s no telling how long this particular mission will take, and Michaela would rather start in on the Cato problem sooner rather than later.

“I, uh, I guess we’re back to square one, huh?” she says, dropping her phone into her lap with an audible _smack_.

“It was a never a guarantee they’d be able to do anything for us,” Matt points out reasonably.

“You’re right, yeah, but. Was a nice thought, ya know? That they might be able to track the bastard down for us and kick his ass once and for all.”

“There’s always the chance that Mordo comes through…”

Michaela laughs. Loudly.

Which, okay, isn’t super warranted. But come on! Mordo had literal months to find this guy and deal with him, and Cato managed to avoid him all that time, despite appearing on the news more than once. In broad daylight. Whatever Mordo was doing clearly wasn’t enough, and again, Michaela doesn’t know the guy. She’s got no reason to believe in his abilities to counter Cato and bring him to justice, or however he phrased it. He could be fucking around as they speak for all she knows, and really, Michaela doesn’t—

Her phone vibrates again. Violently.

Matt looks down at the same time she does, and she pauses, her eyes flicking up to his face as he pulls his phone out from his pants pocket. It’s still vibrating, and, uh, shit. Making noise. She knows that sound, and not just because her phone is making the same exact one. That’s the tell-tale whine of an emergency alert. With a heavy exhale, Michaela picks up her phone, already dreading whatever event is happening just when the Avengers are out of reach.

As her phone shakes with a vengeance in her hands, she mutters a quiet, vehement _fuck_ under her breath.

_Enhanced individuals spotted fighting in the area of Hell’s Kitchen. Caution is advised_.

Michaela reads the message aloud to Matt, then immediately unlocks her phone to pull up the news site she has permanently opened in her browser, the one she likes because it’s usually got a live feed up of whatever current disaster as stricken New York.

This time is no different.

“Call Jessica and the others,” Michaela says, once she’s swallowed back the rising panic that flutters quick and spastic in her throat.

“How bad is it?” Matt asks even as he’s smoothly rising to his feet, his phone at his ear as he moves towards the trunk he stows his Daredevil gear in.

“Ah, not too bad. Cato’s just, ya know, beating the magical shit out of Mordo in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen. With civilians caught in the crossfire. The usual.”

“The usual,” Matt repeats, grim. She hates the look on his face, the tightness around his mouth, the way all traces of laughter have been erased from his expression. She knows she has to look much the same, though, so she doesn’t bother trying for comforting words, just tucks her phone away and follows Matt’s lead, grateful she’s taken to keeping a spare suit at Matt’s place with how much time she spends here.

She listens to him on the phone with Jessica, then Luke, who both seem to at least be aware of the situation, though it’s debatable whether they were planning on doing anything about it, seeing as it’s out of Luke’s usual jurisdiction and Jessica usually has other things on her plate. They both agree to meet them at the site of the battle, though, so Michaela focuses on the positives, meager as they might be, and sets about calling Peter herself once she’s appropriately dressed. She’d usually waffle back and forth on whether or not it’s worth bringing him on something as dangerous as this, but she thinks it’s becoming some of an all hands on deck problem, and as young as Peter is, he’s one of the best of them, in terms of both his skills and his heart. She can trust him to evacuate civilians if nothing else.

For a half-second Michaela thinks of Bailey, of their incredible power, of what an asset they could be. Then she dismisses the thought and slides her phone into her pocket. She’s risking the life of one minor today, she’s not going to talk herself into bringing the count up to two. Especially not when Cato poses such a threat to Inhumans as a whole. He might not have found Bailey yet, and Michaela isn’t about to deliver them straight into his power-tripping hands, nope, not happening. Over her dead fucking body.

“Ready?” Matt asks, all kitted out now, the softness long gone from his face.

Michaela tugs at her gloves, pulling them down tight against her wrists and flexing her fingers. Sparks are already zipping between her fingers like a Jacob’s Ladder gone haywire, and she has to put a conscious effort into not letting them run free from her skin. Matt has flammable things in his apartment, the last thing she needs is to start a fucking fire right before they duck out to do their do-gooding.

“As I’ll ever be,” she says, feigning a smile more for her sake than his. Her next breath stutters out of her, and she clenches her hands into fists, then relaxes them, screwing her face up as she concentrates on beating back the anxiety that’s crawling up from the base of her spine. She has a bad feeling about this, but she has a bad feeling about everything these days. It can’t – it _won’t _stop her from doing what she can for her city and its people. “Let’s _avada kedavra _the fuck out of this guy, Matty.”


	26. chapter twenty-one | new york gets fucked (as per usual)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're in the fuckin' endgame now, folks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to apologize ahead of time for how shitty this chapter is, but I've been fighting with it for the last two months and I honestly can't deal with it anymore. I hope you guys are willing to stick around for the final chapters even if you're disappointed with this one.

To say it feels like the world is ending would be – actually, Michaela can’t be bothered to think of something even remotely quippy about the situation she’s willingly thrown herself into. It _does _feel like the world is ending, but isn’t that just par for the fucking course for New Yorkers these days?

The epicenter of the fight isn’t more than a block away from Keller’s Bank, which is an uncomfortable reminder of simpler times, when all Michaela had to worry about was not getting flattened by a technopath-powered car. She can’t believe those are her _good old days_, but, well, here they are.

Nothing’s changed much from what Michaela saw on the news broadcast. Most of the civilians have cleared out of the immediate area, leaving the streets nearly deserted. Deserted, but not strictly unoccupied – there’s evidence of Mordo and Cato’s magic clashing everywhere, chunks of asphalt gouged out of the road, scorch marks streaked across buildings, a crooked stop light that’s bent around what appears to have been a human-shaped projectile. The wizards themselves are currently nowhere to be found, though Michaela’s fairly sure they’re still in the general vicinity, which she’s basing off the still smoking destruction that’s been wrought on her beloved city.

She’s so sick of wizards and their magic bullshit. Harry Potter is dead to her after this.

Beside her, Matt takes a moment to assess the situation. Judging by the taut line of his shoulders and the foreboding slant of his mouth, she thinks it’s fair to say he’s not too happy with what they’ve walked in on. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make any complaints, just signals for Luke (who is an absolute tank of a man and also incredibly sweet?) and Jessica to round up the wayward civilians.

Jessica rolls her eyes. “Sure. Put the two powerhouses on babysitting duty. Great plan, devil man.”

But she goes all the same, scowling when Luke grins and nudges her shoulder, murmuring something that she snaps out an equally quiet reply to. Luke gives a mock salute to Matt, winks at Michaela and Peter (who’s hovering behind her, dangling upside-down from one of his webs and giving off some pretty big _I-have-no-idea-what’s-happening-but-by-god-am-I-gonna-help _vibes), then jogs after Jessica, already calling out a comforting greeting to the panicky people they’re moving towards.

Sensing her eyes on him, Matt turns to Michaela. “This is your wheelhouse, Michaela. Where do you want us?”

And ain’t that the million-dollar question?

Michaela’s had months to consider strategy. She’s gone over the facts with Matt a hundred times, done it another hundred with Peter. She’s even factored Mordo into her impromptu This Is Why We’re Fucked meetings. And yet she doesn’t feel any steadier on her feet here, doesn’t feel like she’s stepped back even an inch from the precipice she’s been toeing for a year. Cato is just as unpredictable, just as _terrifying _as he’d been that first night she ran into him, when he’d flashed his not-so-holographic shields at her and disappeared into the darkness.

But when has that ever stopped her before.

“Spidey, you up for getting us a birds-eye view of the action?”

Peter is _buzzing _with nervous energy, looking like he might just vibrate off this mortal coil if left unchecked, and she figures this’ll have him feeling included without letting him directly engage with the murderous wizards right off the bat. He’s quick to nod, anyway, flipping upright without letting his feet touch the ground and webbing his way across the street. She watches until he’s out of sight, something knocking loose in her chest even as something else seizes up. Then she’s blowing out a slow breath, sparks licking down her forearms and flickering at her fingertips.

“We don’t have a plan.”

“Little too spur of the moment for us to have anything in place just yet,” Matt agrees. His head cocks and she knows he’s listening out for Peter. Or maybe he’s spreading his awareness out, pinpointing civilians and baddies alike. Matt’s good at multitasking like that, she’s learned, much better than her at splitting his focus. She supposes it comes from practice and necessity, though she’ll admit she’s more than a little envious of the talent.

“Matt” – she really can’t stress this enough – “_we don’t have a plan_. We are fighting wizards and we’re plan-less. We’re gonna get ourselves killed.” _We’re _going to get killed quickly morphs into _she’s going to get Peter killed _and fucking hell, she can feel the cold sweat breaking out on her skin, her temples damp with it, her mask soaking through as the seconds tick by. “Oh god, Matty, the kid—”

He’s closer, suddenly, having moved without her registering it. His hand claps gently over her mouth, another tugging lightly at her braid to drag herself out of her spiraling thoughts.

New York’s under magical fire and she’s making Matt pause to comfort her. Fuck. The toaster oven vibes are back and she could not be less appreciative of their timing.

“The kid is going to be fine,” Matt tells her, his voice firm, and there’s no give, nowhere for her anxiety to burrow through the cracks. She just – runs up against it and bounces back, because Matt’s close and warm and she can’t see his eyes but can imagine them, the promise in them that he’d rather die than break. She swallows hard, struck momentarily dumb all over again by the realization that the universe did her one hell of solid when it had her cross paths with Matt Murdock. “The kid is going to be fine, we’re all going to be fine. This is our city, Michaela. It’s ours to protect, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Trust me, alright?”

Trust Matt. That’s… not nearly as difficult as she might’ve guessed. Because that’s what she’s been doing for, god, what, a year? She’s put her faith in Matt over and over again, and aside from that whole _he-totally-knew-identity-for-months-and-didn’t-think-she-should-be-privy-to-that _shitshow, he’s never let her down. And she’s never really doubted him, even in her lowest moments.

_Okay_. Inhale, hold, exhale. Rinse and repeat.

Michaela cracks a grin underneath the mask, knowing Matt’ll understand. “Taking your cues from the good captain again, Murdock?”

Matt smiles back, dropping his hands to squeeze her shoulders once before reaching for his baton. “What can I say? I’m a fan. And I figured it wouldn’t hurt to emulate your celebrity crush a little,” he adds, his smile tilting into a smirk at the indignant noise she lets out.

“We’re – not gonna address that right now. Wizards first.”

“Wizards first.” Matt gestures with the baton, sweeping out towards the now-empty streets. “Lead the way, Blackout.”

So that’s what she does.

She’s by no means a leader, quite literally has the social skillset of a lemming, but Michaela knows that Matt is right beside her, that he’s not going to foist all the responsibility onto her and let her hang. Together they check in with Luke and Jessica, relieved the pair have the civvie situation on lockdown. Then Peter’s swinging into view again, nearly crash landing into a dumpster that’s been upended in the middle of the street he’s so agitated.

The news isn’t – great. Peter spotted Mordo and Cato about three streets west of where they are now, tracked them for a bit and realized they’re not moving much from their current position. Peter’s convinced someone threw up – and she’s paraphrasing here – _some kind of barrier that they totally ripped off of this really cool anime Ned showed me_? He couldn’t get a clear view of them fighting, like he was staring through not-quite-opaque glass, and when he shot out test web, it. You know. Got deflected, or so Peter says. Not that she doesn’t believe him, and not that that’s even out of the realm of possibility at this point (fuck, what _is _impossible when it comes to these assholes?), it’s just – weird. Okay? It’s fucking weird, and she hit her quota for magical bullshit like eight months ago and she’s frankly appalled at the debt she’s been racking up since.

Even without Peter’s surveillance, Michael doesn’t think it would’ve taken all that long to find these guys. Matt tenses up when they’re a block out, twisting even as they run to better work whatever echolocation thing he’s got going on. He catches her staring (she’s probably boring a hole into the side of his head, he wouldn’t even need the amped-up senses to figure it out) and shakes his head, jaw clenched, and she gets it. It’s bad. That’s really all she needs to know.

In reality, she could’ve done with a more… _comprehensive _warning, but. Well. That’s not how things usually go for her.

Michaela’s first impression of the fight – of the _actual _fight, not the remnants of it, the bruised and battered people caught in the crossfire – is _light_.

There’s Mordo, his own shields flaring bright and sharp even in the midday sunlight, fending off Cato’s pure-energy whip, with much greater ease than she did back in the Library from Hell – or, at least, she’s not seeing any charred clothing or smelling the oh-so aromatic scent of burnt flesh, so. Arguably could be worse.

Mordo jumps – and jumps again, mid-air, _what the fuck she wants a double jump _– and flips over Cato, slashes down at him with the shields, only for Cato to slip right down into the ground via one of his sparkler portals. He reappears behind Mordo and catches him in the shoulder with the business end of his staff, and the man _flies _forward, straight into side of a building.

This would be when Michaela – _stupidly_, god she’s so fucking stupid, no wonder Matt told her once she gives him anxiety-induced heart palpitations – lets loose a bolt of electricity on pure instinct, which zigs and zags through the air and miraculously wings Cato on the right side. He staggers back, hood tossed back to reveal the sharp gleam of his disbelieving snarl and the sluggishly-bleeding cut across the jut of his cheekbone, and – fuck. He zeroes in on her immediately, like he’d only been waiting for a sign of her presence. His stance hardly changes, though she watches him twirl his staff around his fingers, the ease of his movements grating on her already fried nerves.

“Blackout,” he says, and it’s _booming_, his voice loud and overwhelming, like it’s bouncing off the buildings around them and nailing Michaela right in the solar plexus. Beside her, Matt ducks his head, checking a wince, and her nails bite into her palms, harsh enough to draw blood. “So good of you to join us. And you’ve brought comrades! The Devil and the Spider. What fitting companions for an Inhuman such as yourself.”

Michaela doesn’t answer. She’s rapidly cataloging Cato’s surface-level injuries, darting glances over to where Mordo is still slumped over on the cracked sidewalk. Mordo did some damage, little nicks here and there, one of Cato’s eyes looks on its way to swelling shut eventually, and when he moves there’s a slight hitch in his gait, a delay that says he probably took an unwanted spill earlier and knocked a joint out of alignment. But he’s still – he’s not unharmed, obviously, but he’s _confident_, unworried. He’s smiling, damn him, and the joyful curl of his lips seems genuine, as does the matching sparkle she can make out even at a distance.

There’s also the, uh. The glowing.

The intricate tattoos she’d noted last time are incandescent now, lit from within and dazzling in the same way sunlight striking metal is dazzling. It is and isn’t like how Grace had glowed, the manifestation of her Inhuman potential turned up to the max; Cato’s got the color down, even has the rippling effect that reminded Michaela too much of sunlight filtered through clear water. But it’s contained to the tattoos. The light doesn’t leak out of his pores the way it did with Grace, and Michaela is enough of a fantasy-slash-sci-fi nerd to make the connection between the ink and Cato’s newfound magical steroid boost.

A shudder ripples down her spine as she sizes Cato up. He’s – worse than he’s ever been, she can tell that at glance. Michaela puts very little stock in Mordo’s wizard-catching abilities, but his confidence had to come from _somewhere_, yeah? He can’t have been that much of a push over that it took one good hit from Cato to knock him flat on his ass. Cato’s _glowing _with power, and he – her jaw clenches, teeth grating against each other just at the thought, but he got it from somewhere. Some_one_.

“Spidey, you’re on guard duty,” she says, waving absently at Mordo’s worryingly prone form without taking her eyes off Cato, which is just as well, given he’s looking his fill when it comes to her already. “And no backtalk!” she adds, hissing, knowing he’s likely gearing up to deliver an earnest speech on just why he should be allowed to risk his_ can’t-even-legally-drink-alcohol_ neck, because _I have a responsibility, Michaela, I gotta do what I can with these powers or I’m no better than the bad guys! _Michaela gets it, she really does; she’s got the same mantra on a loop in the back of her head any given time, really, and while it’s not quite the same with Matt, he can sympathize. They’re all here for the same reasons – they want to do something _good _because they have the ability to do it.

But fuck if she’s putting Peter fucking Parker in front of the firing line when she’s got another choice.

“I’m not dismissing you,” she says, quick and sharp but not without that hint of _too much _trickling down from the back of her throat. Too much warmth, too much love. Too much of her stupid fucking heart on her sleeve. “I’m _not_, kid, I’m—I’m being selfish, okay? I need you as safe as you’re going to get, or I’ll drive myself insane with it later. Let me be selfish for, like, the next ten minutes at least?”

Despite the mask she can more or less tell he’s raising bow brows at her, taken aback by the fierceness of her tone. Or maybe he’s picking up on the tears she can feel burning at the backs of her eyes, the stranglehold they’ve got on her throat. Either way, Peter nods slowly, darting another glance at Mordo before he bobs his head again – to both her and Matt, she figures – and then he’s off.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Michaela says, her voice high and tight with absolutely nothing she can do about it, “but I really want Karl back in this fuckin’ shit-show of a fight.”

“Too bad we don’t always get what we want, huh?” Matt says, and Michaela barks out a half-hysterical laugh, because _Christ_, she doesn’t think truer words have ever been spoken. Her whole life is a testament to that, and so is Matt’s, and Peter’s, and every other godforsaken _hero _out there. But now isn’t the time to lament her life choices, if there ever is a time for that; they have shit to take care of.

But, shit—

Michaela grabs at Matt’s hand and _squeezes_, just for a moment, flashing him an equally fleeting smile that’s rendered all but useless given her mask and his blindness. He squeezes back and then she lets go and _breathes_.

And this would be when — appropriately — all hell breaks loose. 


	27. chapter twenty-two | the vigilante buddies in action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to settle things with the Big Bad Wizard, once and for all.

Things get worse before they get better.

And by worse, Michaela means she’s hit rock bottom at least three times in the span of thirty minutes and she lost track of Matt _ten minutes ago _and Peter is working on getting Mordo back in the game through various _DnD-inspired_ means—

Suffice it to say, she’s having a rough go of it.

Another shockwave catches Michaela off guard and she hits the ground at an awkward angle, her shoulder twisting sharply at the joint and sending jolts of agony all down her arm. The impact drives the air out of her chest, her next inhale choked and bitten-off. The ringing in her ears drowns out the rest of the world and for a moment, Michaela lays there, blinking through cracked lenses and watching the smoke rise around her. Copper pools on her tongue and she swallows, knowing that turning her head is only going to rile up the nausea churning in her gut. _Fuck_, she hurts. Everywhere. From the grit stinging her palms and the insides of her wrists to the throbbing of her head and the blooming ache of bruises on every not-too-bloody patch of skin she has left.

Fuck. Just—fuck everything.

A shout, garbled and distorted from all the many bells she’d had rung recently, has her scrambling to move, to turn over, get her feet under her. She doesn’t recognize the voice – she barely recognizes the sound of her own fucking thoughts – but it pricks at her instincts just enough to provoke a response. She gets onto her knees, ignoring the bright flair of pain from her hands scraping over the ruined asphalt, then staggers upright, and suddenly there’s an arm around her and she’s getting turned, someone’s talking—

_The goggle’s are busted anyway_, she thinks as she shoves them up and then off completely. Black-tinted plastic shakes free and probably lodges itself in her hair, another thing she’ll have to look for if she gets a chance to hose down in the shower. But in the moment it’s worth it, considering she’s finally able to make out exactly who’s staring at her with abject concern and an inappropriately handsome face.

“C’mon, Sparky, you gotta talk to me,” Luke Cage says, and, shit, she’s only just tuning in but he’s been talking at her for a while now, yeah? She guesses as much based on his word choice as well as the subtle shake he gives her. She blinks again. Luke cocks his head, darting a glance over his shoulder then zeroing back in on her. “I’m not playing punching bag for Daredevil, so you gotta work with me here.”

Her tongue feels thick and fucking useless in her mouth, but Michaela gets ahold of herself long enough to say, “Dare-Daredevil’s more likely to, to get into the spinny kick bullshit when he’s mad.”

Luke’s mouth curves into a slight smile that’s more smirk-adjacent than it has any right to be in this scenario. “There she is. Snarky as the papers make you out to be, huh? Good to know they got something right. Now, how’re you feeling? Saw you take a nasty hit to the head a while back.”

A hit to the—_Right_. Right, right, that was the last time she got knocked off her feet. Lost her balance and careened straight into the side mirror of a miraculously undamaged car. That would explain the persistent headache and the nausea, actually, so it’s good that Luke reminded her about it.

But, wait.

“You’re here?” she blurts out, and she knows she’s making the most incredulous face because not only does it pull at every cut she has but it gets Luke laughing.

“Yeah, we’re here,” he says. “Jess and I figured you guys could use the assist, since that guy multiplied or whatever.”

Multiplied. Fuck, yeah, Cato did do that, didn’t he? Michaela had an uncomfortably flashback to when she and Matt met Bailey, and that led to a guilt spiral of epic proportions, because Michaela can only hope that Bailey doesn’t try and get in on this action; she should have texted them, laid the whole thing out and gotten Bailey to _promise _they wouldn’t get involved. But alas, Michaela is forever an idiot and while Bailey had been on her mind earlier, she hadn’t thought to check in with them, too worried they’d take it as an invitation to ascend to sidekick-dom without Michaela’s actual say so.

But—fucking hell, that’s not her main concern at the moment. Cato is. Cato and his weird clones, or whatever Mordo called them. Astral something or others, whatever that means. It’s all just more magical bullshit in her eyes, and from what she’s seen, they’re just as dangerous as genuine clones; she’s pretty sure it was an astral-clone that lassoed Spidey mid-jump and hurled him sixty feet down the street.

“You’re… much appreciated,” is what eventually tumbles out of Michaela’s mouth once she’s realized the silence – or near silence, what with all the battle sounds that are breaking through her chaotic ringing finally – has stretched on for a beat too long. “Where is—” She flaps a hand to convey _where the fuck is everyone else _and Luke seems to get the spirit of her gesture if not the literal translation.

“Jess is helping your boy take on one of the wizard clones, and the good guy wizard and Spider-Kid are tag-teaming another one.”

That’s two. Which leaves them with—Cato. Possibly, anyway; Michaela hasn’t noticed any sort of distinguishing features that mark a clone _as _a clone, so it’s a toss-up as to who they’re fighting. Which is all kinds of uninspiring, but she’s trying not to dwell on the plethora of bad shit she has going for her right now.

“Right,” Michaela says, and it’s breathless and high, the word scraping her throat raw. Breathing is agony and every slight movement is hell, but she has a job to do, and concussion or not she’s not shying away from the responsibilities she’s given herself. “Right, okay. So. You wanna partner up?”

“Thought you’d never ask, Sparky. And right on time, too.”

Luke releases her, checks she’s mostly steady on her own two feet, then turns to face the man of the hour, who’s just dropped down from somewhere above them. Cato is, somewhat gratifyingly, battle-scarred. His hood’s been torn from the neck of his cloak, revealing the scrapes and dribbling cuts across his forehead and cheeks. Mordo managed to rip a bracer off him during their last skirmish and the bared skin looks blistered and burnt from the blow. He’s bleeding from somewhere on his torso, his tunic made almost black from the wound, and when the mystical golden circles appear around his forearms, they—flicker, a little.

They’re all exhausted, she knows that. Drawn-out fights hit everyone, friend and foe alike. Here’s hoping Cato’s finally starting to flag just like the rest of them.

Luke gives her a pointed look and she nods, slipping out from behind him just as Cato whips his staff around, and the shockwave catches Luke square in the chest. He stumbles, though, _just _stumbles, the impact not doing much to even smack the smile from his face. Bulletproof, right. Useful ability – way better than what she’s got in her arsenal.

But she’s not thinking about that, because thinking at all is kind of counterproductive to her getting out of this alive.

Electricity surges through entire body as she charges in at an angle, pooling down her forearms and into her hands, and Michaela doesn’t hesitate to bring her hands together, shooting a bolt straight at Cato. He moves to dodge, twirling his staff to dispel any stray sparks, but he isn’t fast enough to avoid the fist Luke slams into his chest. Cato’s magical bracelets go dark for a solid three seconds as he tries to recover, and Michaela’s learned to take advantage of a weakness after all this time in the vigilante gig.

She hits him again, and again, and again. Short-range lightning bolts that don’t hit all that hard but that she’s able to fire in rapid succession. Cato deflects some with his shields and others with the staff, but with the sheer volume of them – coupled with Luke either throwing literal hands or chucking rubble at Cato with abandon – some find their mark.

It’s not like she’s coming out of this unscathed, though. Cato catches her with the tail end of his energy whip, and it snakes around her thigh and just below her knee, burning right through her gear, before she’s able to zap it with enough power to break its grip.

There’s a split-second of cognitive function happening that lets her acknowledge that that was _way more difficult _than the last time she fought Cato, and that—that’s not good. Through the smoke and the grit, it’s less noticeable but Michaela thinks Cato’s maybe… glowing brighter? His tattoos stand out in sharp relief against his skin, white gold even with the hazy air between them where they’d been more of a burnished bronze before. Her mind flickers to cut scenes of anime and cartoons and video games, the villain charging up, amassing every last ounce of their power so they can unleash it all in a devastating final move.

And. Well. Michaela can’t exactly let that happen.

She moves before the doubt can overwhelm her. One second she’s watching Luke toss a jagged block of concrete at Cato and the next she’s electrifying every inch of her body and tackling Cato right into the portal he’s just conjured to presumably hurl the concrete harmlessly past him. Presumably, because clearly she’s not gonna get to see exactly how he was going to use it, since she _and _Cato (distracted, probably, and not quick enough to shake her off) are through to the portal’s other side and suddenly they’re _fucking falling, Jesus Christ, she’s falling, the air’s cutting at her skin and screaming in her ears and they’re gonna hit the ground and she’s finally gonna achieve her subconscious desire to become a fucking pancake on the streets of New York—_

The ground rushes up to meet them much soon than Michaela was expecting.

Cato’s body smacks into the street first and the recoil jostles her from where she’d been doing an impressive imitation of a koala, her arms and legs jerking free of their hold on him and sending her rolling, almost bouncing, a few feet away.

The smell of burnt hair is what she notices first, sharp and bitter in the back of her throat. Fuck, that’s her, that’s—that’s the charred hair on her arms and the back of her neck, the loose strands from her braid that coiled up at her sweaty temples and cheeks. Some of it might even be from Cato where her sparking hands clutched tight around his bare upper arms. _Fuck_. The ringing is back and with a vengeance, and Michaela’s entire body throbs with the rabbit-quick beat of her heart, the blood rushing through her veins. She doesn’t, there’s _no time for this_, she has to get up, to move, Cato is still—

Another shout, and it’s clearer, and she _knows that voice_, she—

Michaela bites back a whimper when hands grab at her shoulders, rolling her onto her back. Gloved hands, the rough fabric like sandpaper on her abused skin. But she wants to smile because _that’s Matt_, and he’s looking down at her, half of his mask cracked but he’s alive and he’s here, and he’s – talking. He’s talking, his lips are moving and forming words of some kind. Fuck, okay, focus, Michaela, focus!

“_Matty_,” she rasps, forcing her bloody lips into an approximation of a grin.

Matt’s hands smooth gently over her arms, checking for breaks, and then he’s cupping her cheeks with a barely-there touch, just enough pressure to know he’s there. His mouth’s a flat line but she knows him well enough to guess that he’s shaking inside.

“Queens wasn’t enough for you?” he asks, his voice level and controlled but with a fine tension snaking through it. Almost brittle, like he’d crack right down the middle if someone touched him. “You have to drop in on every borough now?”

“I’m… thorough,” she says, or thinks she says. Words are getting lost in the staccato beat that’s taken up residence in her head. But Matt sighs like he’s heard her. And then his head tilts away from her, his shoulders tensing. “…Matt?” she tries. “I mean, shit, uh. Dare…devil?”

The tension doesn’t dissipate. If anything, Matt coils tighter. His hands drop from her face and he half rises from his crouch, and Michaela’s scared, okay, she’ll admit, she’d like for someone to explain what the fuck is happening. She’s gearing up to _ask _Matt what the fuck is happening when she hears someone – _Jessica _– calling out: “The fight isn’t over, lovebirds! Move your asses!”

And then Matt’s – gone.

Michaela blinks and he’s thirty feet away, rolling to a reluctant stop, his hands scrabbling at the asphalt, and, fuck, oh, fuck – Michaela throws herself sideways, a weak cry ripped from her chest as she feels the stretch of wounds, just in time to avoid the whip that’s smacked down into the street. She tries to get up but her arms give out before she’s even raised up onto her knees, and _fuck_ that’s Peter yelling for her, and Matt in the distance. The whip cracks down again, inches from her face, and okay. She screams. Loudly. Her heart is pounding out of her chest and everything _hurts _and she can’t _move_—

“You’re lucky I don’t hate you,” Jessica says, suddenly _there_, breathless but _breathing_, and she just – scoops Michaela up like she weighs nothing, tucking her tight against her chest as she jumps back from the multi-colored blast of energy Cato throws at them. Michaela cries out again, can’t help the shaky, broken noise that leaves her, but she holds on as tight as her protesting muscles will allow, an arm around Jessica’s neck and a hand fisted in the tattered remains of her leather jacket.

“He’s fucking relentless,” Jessica hisses, and Michaela really can’t agree more. She’s got her face shoved into Jessica’s shoulder but she can hear the tell-tale signs of Cato’s pursuit: the _crack _of the whip, the _boom _of his staff and its shockwaves. “Hold on!” and Michaela barely has time to process why she’d need a reminder _to hold on because that’s about all she can do right now _when Jessica jumps again – only she doesn’t come back down right away, and the wind in her ears is just loud enough to be heard over her pounding blood and they’re _flying_, fuck, just a little, and then they’re touching down and Jessica skids across the ground and Michaela nearly goes flying out of her arms, startled into loosening her grip—

And then Matt’s got her, his arms like a vice around her waist, crushing her to his chest. She doesn’t even care that he’s squishing bruised-maybe-broken ribs, that she doesn’t have a single breath left in her body after all the screaming she managed on the way down. She clings as tightly as she can to Matt and he clings back, and that’s. A lot. It’s more than enough.

It’s inappropriate, given the timing, but Michaela’s willing to give herself a pass considering she’s almost died – what, three times? Four? In less time than it takes to bake a fucking cake?

Yeah, they’ve earned a little bit of inappropriate intimacy.

“Matt,” she says, and he’s already shaking his head. The harsh edges of his mask dig into her shoulder, his nose pressed into her skin. “Matty. C’mon. You know we have to finish this. We gotta let go.”

“I don’t much like the consequences when we let go of each other,” he says, the words warm and as soft as they are splintered, breathed across her shoulder.

He’s breaking her fucking heart.

“Me either,” she says, reaching for the only bit of skin she can find, her hand grazing his chin, his perpetual stubble prickling her fingertips. “But Jessica… is probably gonna kick _both _of our asses… you know? If we leave her to do this by herself…”

“You’ve really got no right being the voice of reason in this relationship, King.”

“I will… _gladly _hand the honor right back to you… when this is over, Murdock.”  
  
That earns her a stilted laugh. Matt lets her go, lets her stand on her own, and she smiles at him. Well, she _tries _to smile; it’s more akin to a pained grimace than anything else, and it’s probably good that he can’t see the expression in its entirety. Don’t need him second-guessing himself right now, could lead to some nasty endings in their collective future.

As Michaela rights herself, wrapping an arm around her aching ribs and brushing the damp, downright disgusting hair from her eyes, she becomes aware of the others. It’s not just Jessica waiting around for their tender moment to finish – Luke’s with them, too, and Peter’s crouched down beside them, a dazed-but-functional Mordo at his heels. Jessica flicks them a glance, frowning, but Luke is smiling when she meets his eyes, sympathetic. She can’t tell much from Peter’s mask but she knows he’s just happy they’ve all made it to this point, and hell, she’s right there with him. They’ve been through some serious shit in the last… fuck, forty-five minutes? Has it even been that long? She’s going to be sporting half a fucking head gray hair after this, she fucking knows it.

And outside of their little circle stands Cato. As they watch, his two clones – astral _projections_, that’s it! Fuck, right, okay, the astral projections seem like they’re merging, phasing right back into Cato until he’s the only one facing them. His staff is held tight in one hand, the other encircled by those golden rings Michaela’s become so familiar with. But they’re – less vibrant, maybe, or dimmer than they were before. Even from here Michaela can see the ragged rise and fall of Cato’s chest, the ever-widening circle of blood on his side.

“He’s grown weaker,” Mordo says, “but his powers are still above what they should be. The energy he siphoned from those Inhumans had much greater potential than even he realized, I think.”

“So, you’re saying we’re fucked,” Jessica summarizes, sounds remarkably unconcerned about their supposed impending doom. The white-knuckled grip she has on her upper arms says it’s mostly just a front, though, and Michaela sure as hell isn’t going to be the one to call her out on it.

“Perhaps,” Mordo replies, then adds, with a hint of a smirk, “perhaps not.”

“I swear to god, if you don’t give us a straight answer, I’m going to put a fist through your chest, Dumbledore.”

“Jess,” Luke chides, but at the scathing look Jessica sends him, he shrugs and lets it go.

“I know of a way to combat Cato’s unholy power,” Mordo says, “but I need—“ He breaks off abruptly, cursing up a storm as all of them scramble to dodge the massive burst of energy Cato launches at them.

Matt grabs Michaela and hauls her with him to safety, ducking behind an overturned car that likely isn’t going to do shit for them as a barrier. But Michaela’s alright with lying to herself at times like this, and she decides it’ll work just fine for a minute or two so they can catch their breaths. Evidently, Mordo’s had the same idea, because it’s about two seconds later that he joins them, and Michaela would be irked, really, but they’re all fighting for their lives and she’s not going to begrudge the guy a safe space even if he is cutting into her time with Matt.

…she should seriously rethink her priorities the next time she gets a chance, Christ.

“You said you had a way out of this,” Matt says, turning to face Mordo.

The man nods, his eyes on a point in the distance. Michaela follows his gaze, curious as to what the fuck could be distracting him, and – that’s not her eyes playing tricks on her, right? That’s. A crack in the sky. She blinks, shakes her head, but what she’s seeing doesn’t change. In the air between two buildings, there’s a jagged line, and it’s glowing with the same golden light as Cato’s tattoos.

Huh.

“I alone am not strong enough to defeat Cato,” Mordo says, and okay, Michaela has to bite back an ungodly snort at that, because _Jesus fucking Christ, this isn’t news to anyone_. But she does stifle it (mostly) and she gets only the barest of judgey looks from Mordo before he goes on. Score. “But I know someone who is. I can get her and bring her here now that Cato’s control over this dimensional travel shielding has begun to deteriorate.”

“I sense a _but _coming.”

“But,” Mordo says, sighing, “to do so would mean leaving the rest of you the fend for yourselves. I realize I have no done much to win your trust, especially not in this fight, but you must trust me when I say that Cato will make use of my absence, no matter how short. He will come at you and he will not hold back.”

Michaela doesn’t know what to say to that. Has Cato been holding back? Is that what’s she supposed to take from this? Because if that’s him holding back… fuck. _Fuck_. Beside her, Matt is just as silent, mulling over what they’ve been told.

“How long do you need?” Matt finally asks.

“Less than a minute,” Mordo says.

Michaela’s shoulders drop of their own accord. “Oh, a minute? We can, uh. We can handle that. Probably.”

Before Mordo can respond, Peter appears atop the car they’re hiding behind, landing with enough force that his sneakers dent the side door. He’s trailing webbing, the strings wrapped loosely around his arms and chest, and he’s looking a little singed at the edges.

“Blackout! Daredevil, Dumbledore!” – Michaela quietly enjoys the pinched expression that gets from Mordo – “You’ve got incoming!”

“Do what you have to do!” Matt orders, and then he’s up and parkouring his way over the car, baton at the ready.

Peter glances back at him, then down to Michaela. She blinks at him, to which he shrugs and extends a hand. She takes it, lets him haul her to her feet, and when she looks back Mordo is already stepping through his own portal, though she watches it sputter and waver, looking as though it won’t hold – but it does and he makes it through, at least as far as she can tell.

“Dumbledore’s not sticking around? That’s unfair!”

“He’s coming back.” Michaela pauses, wincing as she probes at a bruise on the underside of her jaw. “_Fucking fuck that hurts_. Shit, I mean – I’m pretty sure he’s coming back. I’ll haunt his wizard ass if he doesn’t, and I will be the least friendly fucking ghost he’s ever met. I will go full _Paranormal Activity _and his life will be actual hell.”

“You’d have to die to haunt him, Michaela. You’re not going to die. You’re not, okay?”

Michaela can’t help but smile a little, despite how it pains her to do so. “Right, right, I know. Neither are you, kid. Now c’mon, Dumbledore said he needed a minute. Let’s give it to him.”

She fully intends to do that. Really, she does. She’s all raring to go, catching her second wind or whatever.

Except. Well. Michaela doesn’t get more than two steps away from the car before the world drops out from under her.

The scream gets torn from her mouth and silenced before she even hits the ground. Disoriented, she fights to roll over, to figure out what just fucking happened (_except she knows what it was, she’s been tossed out those portals often enough that she’s memorized the feel of it_). She gasps as something – a foot, a slab of concrete, _fuck it hurts _– slams into her chest, knocking her onto her back, and then there’s a weight pinning her down, settled on her knees, and Cato’s beaming a bloody smile down at her.

“Finally,” he breathes as he presses both glowing hands to her shoulders, and they _burn burn burn_, white hot and searing into her skin, and she can’t fucking breathe, can’t make a sound, “I’ve put this triumph off for long enough, haven’t I, _Blackout_? My collection has grown exponentially since we last met, but it is far from complete. You have always been my masterpiece, Blackout – the powers awakened in you surpassed all expectations. You are _raw energy _and when I drain that power from you, I will be unstoppable.”

“_Michaela!_”

“_Blackout!_”

There’s a surge of – something, something golden and fanged, and it prickles over her skin, hooking deep into bones, and there’s – she hears more voices, cries of pain, the thud of bodies on the street, but everything feels distant, removed, everything except the claws inside of her chest that tear and shred and pierce at something so deeply imbedded in her that she thinks it’s her heart. She’s gasping but it’s soundless, the air long gone from her lungs, and she’s bleeding, she must be, bleeding out, and there’s a hole in her chest and Cato’s cold empty eyes above her and his white-crescent smile stained a sickly red. She tries to fight it, tries to buck up, to shock his hands off her body, but nothing – nothing comes. No sparks, no lightning. The constant buzzing that’s been in the back of her head since she discovered her powers has dulled to _nothing_. Silence and emptiness and blood.

But then:

“You have broken so many of our laws, Cato.”

The weight vanishes from her in an instant. Oxygen takes a little longer to get with the picture but then she’s sucking in sharp inhales and choking on them, she can feel every inch of her body again and she curls in on herself, clawing at her throat and her chest, and there’s no hole, there’s no gaping wound. Michaela breathes and breathes and she’s _crying_, fuck she’s crying, the tears hot and _too much_ on her cheeks, too much sensation after the looming nothingness, but she’s fucking ecstatic to be feeling it, because it means she’s _alive_.

It takes a while before Michaela feels in control of herself enough to drag herself upright into a sitting position, but she manages it, and when she glances up, still with a hand pressed to her chest because she can’t quite make her brain believe that there _isn’t _a fatal wound in her sternum, there’s. Uh. There’s a woman standing in front of her. Tall and slim, decked out in a long, bright yellow robe that’s actually hurting Michaela’s eyes a little, her hood drawn back. And she’s – bald. And also beautiful, which is a fucking stupid detail to take in at a time like this but Michaela’s all but proven her dumbass status today, so it’s fitting, honestly. She lifts a hand and Michaela follows the movement, her eyes widening at the sight of Cato writhing in the air before the woman, seemingly trapped there by pulsating coils of magic not that different from the whip he’s been toting all throughout this encounter.

“You have harmed those who should have been under your protection,” the woman is saying when Michaela tunes in, her voice strong and unyielding, but softer than Michaela might have expected if she had any room in her fucked-up head for expectations. “You have abused the magic we taught you to harness. You have stolen from us and stolen lives from others. You listened to the greed in your heart and turned away our teachings. And for that, you will pay.”

Michaela watches, awe-struck and nauseated, as the woman slowly closes her outstretched hand, as the bindings around Cato mirror the movement, tightening more and more as seconds pass. Cato stares at the woman, unblinking, brown eyes shot through with red and gold, and he’s saying something, or trying to, but the words are lost in the strangled sounds he’s making. She just clenches her fist tighter, until Cato’s head drops, his body going slack but held in place by the bindings.

The woman sighs and lowers her hand, and Cato’s body lowers with it, dropping lightly onto the ground. Motionless. Michaela can’t take her eyes off it – because he’s dead. This man, _this delusion, godforsaken asshole wizard who has been terrorizing her and the city she promised to protect for a fucking year, who has bested her and her friends at every turn, who killed countless Inhumans for his own gain and laughed about it _– he’s dead. Just like that. He’s lying on the ground, lifeless, not even twitching. Dead.

Michaela – she starts laughing. It’s ugly, her laughter, harsh and loud, broken up by hiccupping gasps that punch up from her chest and press into every bruise on the way. She’s crying she’s laughing so hard, or – or she’s just crying, she can’t tell anymore. Both, it’s probably both. She presses her knuckles into her eyes, blinded by the red tint of skin against her eyes, and she’s laughing and crying, and she’s _breaking apart _but who the fuck cares about all that? Cato is dead. Dead! Some magical woman appeared out of nowhere and squeezed the life out of his demented body! And Michaela couldn’t be fucking happier about it!  
  
How fucked up is that?

“Child.”

Michaela’s hands drop from her eyes slowly, falling limply into her lap. The woman’s kneeling in front of her, solemn and still, her eyes searching Michaela’s for – something. She doesn’t seem to find it, because she reaches out and lays a hand on Michaela’s, and it’s only then that she realizes how hard she’s trembling, her body wracked by it. Tears are still sliding down her cheeks and she can’t get them to stop, she’s not even sure she wants them to.

“Child,” the woman says again, “you have suffered so much by Cato’s hand, and for that I could not be sorrier. I should have taken care of this myself, but I had not realized the extent to which Cato had perverted his magic. I thought Mordo would be a match for him and that this would be resolved long before Cato took so many innocent lives.” She squeezes Michaela’s hand. “But you may rest now. Cato has been dealt with and what he took from you has been returned.”

Michaela’s hand fists in her sweatshirt, breath hitching. Fuck, that’s right, he almost – he almost killed her, almost stole her, her powers. Blackout would’ve died right alongside Michaela and she’s not special, okay? She knows she’s not, especially not compared to the other heroes in New York. Blackout isn’t irreplaceable. But she’s done some good, hasn’t she? She’s achieved _something _from all of this. Saved some lives, helped a few old women clear out their apartments. She’s made people’s lives a little better. To think that that might’ve been snuffed out… it’s.

Fuck. Just… _fuck_.

“Christ,” Michaela breathes, her heart slamming against her rib cage, “Jesus Christ, thank you. You – I would’ve died if you hadn’t—”

“As I said,” the woman gently interrupts, “I should have seen to this sooner. I don’t deserve your thanks. I’m just grateful that I was able to make it here in time to end this before more blood was spilled.”

“Ancient One.” Mordo nearly scares the piss out of Michaela as he approaches them, appearing suddenly in her periphery on silent feet. “Shall I return Cato’s body to the Sanctum?”

“Yes, Mordo, I believe you should.” The woman – the Ancient One? Good lord, Michaela really thought Mordo had been fucking with her before when he mentioned her – squeezes her hand again before rising. She casts a faint glance at Cato, then looks back at Michaela. “Your friends are waiting, child. Go with them. As for the damage done here…” Her eyes pass over the wreckage of the area, narrowing. “We may not be able to set everything to rights, but we’ll do all we can. I’m sure the Avengers can handle the rest.”

Michaela nods stiffly, knowing it’s better that she doesn’t try to talk. God knows what kind of fucking gibberish would spill out without her consent. The Ancient One offers a slight smile.

“I truly am sorry for what you’ve gone through. Rest assured, I will be looking more closely into all those who practice our teachings so something like this doesn’t happen again.”

Michaela just nods again. Right, sure. Magic lady will curtail her wily students. Sounds like a plan that Michaela can get behind. She’d say as much, really, but. Gibberish. And she’d like to not look like a complete fool in font of this incredibly powerful and rightfully scary woman who took down Cato like he was a misbehaving toddler.

If, you know, people disciplined toddlers by squeezing them to death. Which, okay, that’s probably happened, and fucking fuck, this is not the path Michaela’s thoughts should be heading down, not after everything else that happened today.

She’s half paying attention to the Ancient One and Mordo as they talk amongst themselves, Mordo readying Cato’s lifeless fucking corpse for transport, half cataloging all the new and exciting aches she’s sporting. She’ll be laid up in bed for weeks after this, she can feel it, which means she’ll probably be failing several classes and losing her job. All things considered, it’s better than outright _dying_, although Michaela on her darker days would probably argue that point. Not that Matt would let her dwell on it—

_Matt_.

Michaela whips around so fast she sees stars, and everything tightens to an unbearable degree, and everything that doesn’t tighten pulls sharply, and she’s gasping again but she ignores it, pushes past it, because she can see the others not too far away, slowly picking themselves up from wherever Cato tossed them before. She wobbles to her feet, holding herself because otherwise she really is going to just fly apart, piece by piece, and she glances back at the wizards but they’re not paying her any attention. The Ancient One is creating a portal and Mordo looks about ready to step through it and never set foot in Hell’s Kitchen ever again, and you know what? Michaela’s fucking glad of it herself. The less magical bullshit around here the better.

Peter’s the first one to reach her, stopping himself from inadvertently tackling her by shooting out a web behind himself and letting it drag him to a skidding stop. She grins at him, relief cresting in her chest as he beams back, his mask hanging from his free hand. He’s bruised and battered, undoubtedly a little more scarred than he was at the start of the day. But it’s over and he’s alright. He’ll be alright. Michaela shakes her head and reaches for him, wrapping him up in a hug that he returns enthusiastically, but still mindful of his disproportionate strength.

“Good job, kid,” she says, and he laughs, and it’s a little wet but no one gives a shit, least of all her.

“We make a good team,” he says, drawing back enough to look at her. “All of us, together. We’re like, totally badass.”

Michaela snorts, patting Peter’s head absently. “Yeah, kid, we’re badass. Go tell Jessica you wanna make this a full-time partnership, see where that gets you.”  
Peter’s disgruntled face just sets her off again, which is unfortunate, because she hadn’t noticed before laughing makes everything _worse_. Peter freaks out at seeing her in visible pain, his hands hovering over her, unsure where it’s safe to touch, and she doesn’t have the energy to soothe his nerves, so they’re just playing into an anxious feedback loop until the others reach them. Luke claps Peter on the shoulder and moves him back while Matt steps into his vacated space, pulling Michaela closer, leaning down so their foreheads press together.

Michaela laughs a little to herself, because _Matt _hasn’t taken his mask off and it’s kind of uncomfortable but she’s not going to be the one to pull back.

“You gotta stop scaring me like that, King.”

“You act like I do it on purpose. I’m not in this for the thrills, Murdock, god, what do you take me for? Some kind of a _daredevil_?”

Matt groans but he’s smiling, bloody and in desperate need of a twenty-four hour nap, but smiling all the same. “How long have you been holding that one in?”

“Since like, that night you told me you were Matt Murdock, attorney at law?”

“That long, huh? I’m impressed at the willpower it took not to use it until now.”

“Thank you. I’m proud of myself.”

Matt’s smile softens some at that. “You should be, Michaela.”

She’s probably flushing a little from the praise and for once she’s not even bothered by it. Instead, she just tucks her hand into Matt’s and swivels to face the rest of the vigilante buddies. She lets out a stilted breath, easing it around the breaks in her ribs. “I really can’t thank you guys enough for coming out here with us. You didn’t have to, and—”

“Sparky, shut up, will you? This guy wouldn’t have stopped at Hell’s Kitchen and you know it. Your boy said it when he pitched the whole team-up thing to me: We gotta cover what the big league heroes can’t, and that means helping each other out when we can. Yeah? We agreed to that, we’re gonna stand by it. And Jessica cares a lot more than she lets on,” he adds, giving Jessica a charming smile that she skillfully ignores in favor of rolling her eyes at Matt and Michaela.

“Yeah, yeah, what he said,” she sighs, huffing the tangled hair from her eyes. “I _do _work better alone, but that doesn’t mean I won’t turn up when you need me. Quid pro quo, right? You scratch my back, etcetera, etcetera.”

“I’m just happy to be included,” Peter says, sheepish and flushed and too fucking adorable for the hell they’ve all just gone through. Not that Michaela’s complaining.

Matt slips an arm around her shoulders and she curls close to his side, mindful of their collective injuries. “We’re gonna thank you all regardless. You went above and beyond today, and we’re all a little worse for wear from it. So, thank you.”

“Thank you,” Michaela echoes, grinning. Her smile only widens when that metaphorical light bulb goes off. “Oh, hey, who’s up for food? Because I’m fucking _starving_.”

“As long as we go somewhere with half-decent booze.”

“Harlem’s got some great places, and it’s, you know. Considerably less trashed.”

“I just, uh.” Peter snags his phone from his pocket and fumbles with it, glancing between Jessica and Luke before locking eyes with Michaela. “I gotta – call my. Um. My cat-sitter! Let her know I’ll be home late!”

Michaela just tucks her face into Matt’s neck and _laughs_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, this chapter came much, much easier than the last one. I wrote it in a day. Which probably means it's unnecessarily confusing and riddled with mistakes, but all the same, I hope you guys enjoyed it! And also, hey -- we've finally got a chapter count! I should be wrapping this up in the next chapters. Or, maybe two with an epilogue. We'll see how it works itself out.
> 
> Once again, thank you all for reading!


	28. chapter twenty-three | every iteration of the accords is terrible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is ever easy in Michaela's life, and now sure as hell isn't any different.

_One Month Later _

Michaela would like to say that things wind down after the absolute clusterfuck that was Cato and Mordo going full Mortal Kombat in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen. She’d like to say that the worst thing any of them has to face is Peter’s ever-growing list of homework assignments, which Michaela _insists _on helping him with despite the fact that she’s netting mostly C’s herself (Matt is, obviously, a much more effective tutor, and so is Jessica when she’s in the mood to contribute something other than snarky commentary on the state of America’s shitty school system; she’s an English major at heart, Michaela would stake her nonexistent fortune on it). She’d _like _to say that her biggest disappoint these days is the fact that she one hundred percent did lose her job at Cody’s, which – let’s be real, that was a long time coming, and more than anything she’s grateful Cody kept her on as long as he did.

And she can say that. For about a month.

It was a good month, at least. That’s gotta count for something in these trying times.

_______________________________

“Why am I taking this class again?”

“Because it’s a graduation requirement and you’re hoping to graduate in the near future,” Matt says without even lifting his head. He’s on the couch, curled up against the armrest and scanning through the files Foggy dropped off a few hours ago, and Michaela’s on the verge of demanding they switch tasks for like, twenty minutes, except she can’t fucking read braille and Matt’s said before that he’s no longer offering his services when it comes to college-level algebra.

It’s valid not only because algebra might as well be actual literal hell in numerical form, but also because Michaela is a bitch of a student when it comes to things she doesn’t like, and nothing tops that list like _math_.

She huffs out a breath, frustrated with herself and her piss-poor decision making skills (she could’ve taken _critical thinking _instead of this, it would’ve fulfilled the requirement just fine, but Past Michaela apparently saw _thinking _and assumed her incredibly busy schedule wouldn’t be able to accommodate the extra brain power). Her pencil taps against the countertop, quick and arhythmic, _taptaptaptaptap_. The numbers on her laptop screen make about as much sense now as they did an hour ago when she sat down to get this done. For fuck’s sake, why is the vigilante aspect of her life somehow _not _the most stressful thing she has going on right now?

Speaking of that, though, her phone buzzes where it’s tucked away in her hoodie pocket, and she’d ignore it, usually, but that’s – that’s the _buzz_. The Bad New Buzz, which is a term Peter coined when they were on patrol together a while back that Michaela _loves_. About as much as she hates the cold knot of dread that twists around her guts just from hearing it. Feeling it, fuck, whichever makes the most sense.

Michaela doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know Matt’s put aside his case files, that he’s sitting up and grabbing his phone from where he tossed it onto the coffee table. He’d let the text-to-voice function play it for him, but since Michaela’s here he only pockets it and gets up to stand at her shoulder while she clicks into the news site that’s pretty much a permanent fixture in her tabs.

She – god, she really has stopped going into things with expectations, they’re a hindrance she doesn’t need, but somehow, _somehow_, what she sees when the Emergency News Alert starts playing defies quite literally any expectation that could have ever occurred to her.

“Is that—” She can’t finish the question. This isn’t real, this is some alternate realty she’s dropped into without explanation or memory of it having happened. Right? Michaela blinks, then blinks again, slumping back until she’s leaning into Matt. His hands smooth over her shoulders, gripping lightly, grounding her in the moment. “He’s not—he’s not _that_—okay, it’s Stark and he’s been certifiable since like the early 2000s but this is—”

“Insane,” Matt finishes for her, and yeah. Yeah, okay, there really isn’t a better word for what she’s seeing.

Scrolling across the bottom of the screen is the headline _IRON MAN AND CAPTAIN AMERICA SEEN FIGHTING IN DOWNTOWN BROOKLYN; REASONS UNKNOWN_.

And right above the text, live and streaming to several thousand viewers according to the counter in the upper right-hand corner, is Tony Stark, kitted out in his Iron Man suit, repulsar-blasting Steve Rogers and his ubiquitous shield while the man zigs and zags in nothing but his running shorts and a partially-ripped t-shirt.

The news anchor – Camille something-or-other, Michaela usually doesn’t spare her or her co-workers much thought, too engrossed in whatever fantastical crime is currently taking place in her neighborhood to consider names or faces – is clearly out of her depth with this. There must be no teleprompter for her to read from because she’s stuttering over her recap of the events that apparently led up to his unprecedented brawl. Witnesses reported seeing Tony Stark exiting a car outside of a Brooklyn townhouse (and it’s Stark, so even something as mundane as visiting a friend would catch people’s attention, _especially _if tourists are milling around). Rogers answered the door and Stark, despite Rogers’ apparent protests, barreled his way inside, and then—

And then _this_.

Someone caught Rogers getting blasted through his own front door and Stark zooming out after him, now in full Iron Man regalia, and the onslaught’s continued from there, Rogers doing his best to talk Stark down (judging by how fast his mouth is moving in these shaky videos, though Michaela supposes that could be put down to the quality) and Stark giving not one iota of a damn, just. Fucking _going to town _on Rogers.

“_What the fuck_.” It comes out in a whisper, barely audible to her own ears; Matt’s hands press down a little harder on her shoulders, fingers digging in, the only sign he’s listening to both her and the frazzled reporter. “What the _fuck_. Are we—should we be… doing something about this? This isn’t our schtick, but—”

Michaela’s cut off by—_fuck_, is that Smash Mouth? Why would—ah, right. Peter set _All Star _as his ringtone when Michaela (stupidly) let him mess with her phone, god, what feels like a lifetime ago but in reality was maybe two months back. Still, the music startles her, and it’s only thanks to Matt’s stunning reflexes that her phone doesn’t smash to pieces against the fridge. He hands it back to her, making sure her fingers are closed around it before he drops a kiss to the top of her head and slides the laptop to the other end of the counter. Giving her space.

Michaela breathes out slowly, counts out the requisite beats, and frankly it’s not helping much but she wasn’t really expecting it to. So she swallows down her budding panic and puts the phone to her ear.

“_Michaela!_”

“I’m seeing it, kid. I don’t have any answers for you but I’m seeing it.”

“_Mr. Stark is—he’s—to _Captain America_! I thought they were friends!_”

Well, they disagree there a little. Michaela was never sure how _friendly _the Avengers were with one another, whether they actually got along outside of battle. They work together seamlessly, sure, and that speaks to them have _some _sort of chemistry, but that doesn’t necessarily translate to being best buddies on their off days. After meeting a few of them, though, she’d started to reevaluate – Thor was affable enough that she couldn’t see him _not _getting along with everyone, and there was clear affection in how Natasha Romanoff protected the others. The good captain was harder to read; clearly he _liked _the others, he wouldn’t have put up with their meddling and other various defects (of which she’s sure there are many) otherwise.

Probably. She’s like, seventy-percent sure on that one. Who knows, though? Cap might just be saving face by putting time in at the Tower and the compound and whatever functions he’s expected to attend. She met the guy _once _and admittedly she was only half paying attention to him, curious as she was about James’ – everything.

Peter keeps sputtering down the line, confused and deeply upset by whatever the fuck is happening, and Michaela’s letting him talk because it’s all she can do, as pathetic as that sounds. Matt’s listening intently to the reporter, still, brows furrowed, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. Michaela shuffles around to join him just as they’re switching to a different video, one from another angle that looks like the person shooting is – was? – across the street from Rogers’ townhouse.

Oh, fuck.

“James?” Michaela breathes.

“_Who?_” Peter shouts, while Matt raises a brow at her, baffled – until it must click for him, both brows high up on his forehead and his mouth dropping open a little.

“That’s – _James_,” Michaela repeats, shrilly, gesturing at the screen as if that’s going to make a difference to either Peter or Matt. And it is, it’s fucking James, leaping out of the ruined doorway and, and he’s _fucking grabbing Stark by the leg – mid-fucking-air – and yanking him out of the sky_. That’s. Wild. “It’s James! Rogers’ not-a-friend! The one he went all moony over! Oh my fucking god!”

Peter must finally be watching the same video. He’s quiet for approximately three seconds before he bursts out with, “_Michaela you fucking dumbass, that’s Bucky Barnes!_”

Michaela shrieks, and it’s not a word, it’s not a question, it’s just pure noise, which. Okay, she regrets it immediately, Matt is still right next to her and he can’t check the wince her idiocy elicits. But she can’t _breathe_, Peter’s right, he’s right, that’s – that’s Bucky fucking Barnes, with a metal fucking arm, going toe-to-toe with _Iron Man _and pitching the shield between him and Rogers like they’ve been practicing since they came out of the fucking womb.

“Bucky Barnes. What the fuck, what the actual, literal _fuck_. That’s Bucky Barnes. How did I not notice this before?”

“He’s supposed to be dead,” Matt says, faintly, and Michaela realizes abruptly how shocked Matt must be that even his composure’s been rocked. “You wouldn’t – _no one _would assume it was him if they saw him. We’ve all grown up with that story. Barnes was the only Howling Commando to give his life during the war.”

“Except that he very much _didn’t_,” Michaela cuts in, and, god, now is not the time to hyperventilate, she needs to _breathe_.

“_Has he—Has Captain Rogers been hiding him this whole time?_”

“Why would he be hiding him?”

“He has a metal arm?” Matt asks, and Michaela double-takes, straining to hear what the reporter’s saying. “Michaela. A metal arm. Who does that remind you of?”

Michaela frowns, glancing back at Matt. “I don’t—” Except she does know. Her stomach practically folds in on itself when it hits her. “Bucky Barnes is the _Winter Soldier_?” And now that she’s said it out loud, she can see it. Those videos of Rogers on the bridge in DC were grainy and amateur at best, but they were enough to see the kind of build the Winter Soldier had. The long brown hair. The metal arm. Three descriptors that match Barnes – match _James _– to a fucking T. “Jesus Christ, I met the Winter Soldier. I introduced Bucky Barnes to the Rappin’ with Cap videos. _Oh my god I’m gonna be sick_.”

“_Michaela, don’t puke!_”

“Too late!” Michaela groans, hunched over the sink now, with Matt rubbing comforting circles into her back. Her forehead _thunks _against the counter’s edge and the sharp pain cuts through the fog enough for her another fun realization to surface. “Matt, Matty, I wore the suit. I _had the suit on _when I met the Winter Solider. He saw the mask. Oh, fuck, fucking—he probably laughed at me when I left! I bet he and Rogers were laughing their asses off about it that night!”

“That is, honestly, the least of our problems right now,” Matt says, though not unkindly.

That gets her upright. She’s unsteady, has to spread her feet to keep from face-planting right back into the sink, but she stays up and manages to shuffle over to the laptop, because Matt’s right. Her hysteria needs to take a backseat, they have way bigger fish to fry as of ten minutes ago, and really, Bucky Barnes hiding out in his best friend from the 40s Brooklyn townhouse really isn’t the crux of the issue. It’s that Iron Man put out a hit on Rogers and plans to execute it himself.

Peter’s babbling again, partly about her mental-slash-physical state, partly about the ongoing fight. But when she gets a good look at the feed again, she blinks. Stark is grounded, his metal boots sparking uselessly as he spins to counter a shield strike from Barnes, only to drop to the asphalt when Rogers hits him from behind with – the bumper of a car. Okay then. The bumper, dented in the unmistakable shape of a body, gets tossed aside as Stark rounds on Rogers, but before he can raise his hand and fire off another blast Barnes is back and he’s wrenching the faceplate from Stark’s helmet. The shot goes haywire, landing somewhere off screen, but the screaming in the background crescendos because of it, and Rogers.

Rogers turns towards it instantly, gives his back to Stark without a second thought, his expression open and angry and – above all else – _hurt_. He doesn’t have the shield, that’s with Barnes still, and he takes his eyes off Stark a second too long—

“_Rogers!_” Michaela screams, vaguely aware of Peter doing the same, as the next shot catches Rogers’ back, low, and he – drops.

The camera dips and Michaela is screaming again, _look up, look up you fucking asshole_, and when it finally, _finally _pans back up it doesn’t go to Rogers, but to Barnes, who looks absolutely murderous as he swings the shield into Stark’s chest, sending him flying off screen. There’s one last glimpse of Barnes stalking towards where Rogers fell, then it goes black.

Michaela throws up again. Twice.

_______________________________

Two weeks later, the same day Captain America and Bucky Barnes officially become fugitives of the state, the World Security Council declares the Sokovian Accords are to be adopted by over one hundred countries effective immediately.

The world wants restrictions on enhanced individuals. They saw the sort of destruction they could cause over personal squabbles, and they want protection against that. Assurance that the Avengers aren’t going to go off the rails again. The Accords are supposed to provide that assurance.

Matt’s not so sure he agrees, and Michaela trusts him a helluva lot more than she does the United States government, so that’s pretty much her stance, too. 

Following the Accords, there’s no trial for Tony Stark, despite the fact that _he _instigated the Brooklyn fight. Instead, he “elects” to retire the Iron Man suits and step down from the Avengers. Apparently, since the Winter Soldier is a known threat and Stark won’t expressly say _why _he decided to attack Rogers in his own fucking home, in broad daylight, risking civilian lives in the process, the government’s saying he went there to contain said threat. Which makes Rogers the bad guy for harboring a Hydra weapon. Not a person, a weapon.

So Rogers – and he’s alive, thank fuck, though Michaela sincerely doubts he’s anywhere near the realm of _okay_ – and Barnes disappeared, and the Maximoff twins went with them. Romanoff and Sam Wilson signed the Accords, so did Colonel Rhodes and the Vision. Hawkeye retired, too, or so he says. He’s been sighted in Bed-Stuy since the announcement but nowhere else, so the public’s going along with it for now.

The Avengers are divided, and the world is scrambling to figure out what that means for everyone else.

Meanwhile, Michaela and the rest of the vigilante buddies have been quietly freaking out over what the Accords mean for _them_.

Their blow-out fight with Cato didn’t go unnoticed, though the aftermath didn’t look nearly as bad once the Ancient One worked her magic (ha) on the scene. People were still hurt, buildings were still leveled, but it wasn’t on par with an Avengers-level battle anymore. The papers printed the same shit they always did – vigilantes were the bane of the city, they weren’t _protectors_, they were egotistical madmen looking for their fifteen minutes of fame. It stung, still, to have people look at her and see that, but it was normal. Expected. Michaela could have dealt with it if that’s all that came of it.

But that’s obviously not all that came of it.

There’s a whole section of the Accords dedicated to vigilantes. How to identify them, how to categorize them. What laws they’re breaking by simply existing. They were breaking laws before, yeah, and that hasn’t changed, but it wasn’t on this scale. Now they don’t just have the police sniffing around for them, there are _government agents _patrolling through the territories of known vigilantes. Not just in New York, either, Michaela’s seen reports of governments cracking down on their local vigilantes all over the world. They’re getting rounded up and – and that’s just it. Matt’s gone over the Accords, both in braille and with Michaela reading them out loud to him, at least three times, and he keeps hitting the same snag.

When enhanced individuals break the Accords and get arrested, they – go somewhere. A secure government facility that isn’t specifically named in the documents.

It’s fucking terrifying, like something out the dystopian novels Michaela’s friends kept pushing on her in high school that she probably should’ve read, if for no other reason than because they definitely pertain to her life right this fucking moment.

For Jessica and Luke, the decision is pretty simple. They go to ground, keep themselves out of the spotlight for a while. There’s no way Harlem is going to let Luke go without a fight, so he’s probably pretty safe where he is, and Jessica is more than adept at finding herself a hidey-hole and hunkering down for the foreseeable future. Their faces and names are out there and it puts them at more risk than anyone else, but they have plans.

For the rest of them… well. None of them like it, but they’ve agreed to hang up their suits for the time being. Settle back into so-called regular life and wait for the hype to die down, then see where that leaves them, figure out if there are any loopholes, they can exploit so they can get back to ass-kicking and dishing out justice.

And, really, that might’ve worked for a while. Might’ve kept them all out of trouble and convinced the government to back off.

But Michaela fucking called it way back when.

Spider-Man was always going to be the one who got arrested.


	29. chapter twenty-four | the world doesn't reward noncompliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go from bad to worse, as usual.

Michaela’s alone when she gets the call.

She wouldn’t be if it came at literally any other moment, but she’s out for a run when she hears it, trying in vain to burn off the excess energy that’s accumulated with her keeping a tight leash on her powers these last few weeks. Things have circled around to the early days of her vigilantism, when she electrocuted every other appliance she touched and static-shocked herself whenever she grabbed for the pole on the subway, but it’s from not having an outlet instead of plain old ignorance these days. Matt helps where he can, reminding her to _let off a little steam _every now and then, which – loosely translated – means she’s currently sweating sparks and should like, go and charge her laptop or something.

Can’t say she’s a fan of how her life is going, but it’s better than it could be. Most likely, anyway. Curbing her fatalistic thoughts means she hasn’t been considering worst-case-scenarios as much, and while that’s great and all for her mental health, it means she doesn’t have anything truly terrible to compare her current misery to and feel all warm and fuzzy about it.

But, the call.

_All-Star _again, and she just rolls her eyes a little as she jogs to a stop at the crosswalk, fishing the phone from her zip-up pocket and bringing it to her ear.

“Peter,” she starts, eyeing the light impatiently. She hasn’t jay-walked in a while, irrationally worried it’ll get the attention of the fucking feds she and Matt have clocked in the neighborhood, but she’s tempted to go for it now. “What time even is it? Shouldn’t you be diligently committing the entire periodic table to memory, or whatever you little geniuses do at your smart kid school?”

Or, well, that’s what she’s _planning _to say. What she gets out is about two-thirds of Peter’s name before she’s interrupted by his breathless voice:

“_I need backup!_”

She tenses instantly, adrenaline flooding her system just as quickly – just like old times.

“What the hell?” she says, but she’s already reaching for the bandana she’s tied her back with, resituating it so that it works as a semi-decent replacement for her usual mask. The goggle’s are out, obviously, she’s too far from her apartment to make a run for them, and if that were an option she wouldn’t need the stupid bandana either. The little crosswalk guy pops up, signaling it’s alright for her to keep walking, but she stays rooted to the spot. “Peter, where are you? And – hell, yes, tell me that, but also, _what are you doing_?”

Michaela darts a glance around her, only just second-guessing her decision to _suit-up _(as much as tugging a bandana over her face counts in that regard) in the middle of the city, at like – seven-thirty at night. Dusk set in maybe half an hour ago and the sidewalk wasn’t crowded to begin with when she ran out of her apartment, but she breathes a quiet sigh of relief when she sees there’s no one around to question her. No one besides the guy in the too-big coat conked out against the side of a building a little ways down the street. Michaela hesitates – _Peter needs backup and he still hasn’t answered, fucking hell _– then gives into her first instinct and hurries over, dropping whatever change she has (six crumpled ones and two dimes) into his lap. He stirs a little at the movement, but she doesn’t sick around, whispering fiercely into her phone for Peter to _answer her, goddammit! _

“_Dudes with guns!” _Peter gasps, barely heard over the sound of his heavy footsteps – he’s _running_? Why is he running, Peter slings his way around the city, he doesn’t touch down all that often—“_Shot out my web-shooters!_”

Ah. Fuck.

That answers that question, and concisely, too. How nice.

“Where are you?” Michaela repeats, her heart in her throat.

Peter’s quicker with a response this time, rattles off the street sign he last saw as he mumbles curses and hisses out shaky breaths. Michaela’s running the moment she can get a clear enough picture of where he is in relation to her own location, more than a little grateful her antsy habits took her kinda far from home today. It doesn’t register that she’s familiar with the street Peter gave her _for a reason _until she’s halfway there.

He’s in Hell’s Kitchen. Why the _fuck _is Peter in Hell’s Kitchen?

She doesn’t have time to get the answer out of him now, so she shelves the thought and picks up her pace. The foot traffic doesn’t worsen all that much, but she does have to dodge around the occasional pedestrian and also maybe inadvertently breaks up a drug deal by barreling straight through the trio, calling out a hasty _sorry! _over her shoulder and ignoring the daggers they stare at her as she keeps running. Also the gun – she very much ignores the gun one guy pulls out of his hoodie because she’s in a hurry and petty crimes can _wait_, dammit!

All the while she stays on the line and Peter keeps her updated on the situation as best he can. The real problem, Michaela gleans after she overhears a few hushed conversations on Peter’s side, is that he’s not just protecting himself.

She gets it out of him in fits and starts – he was coming to visit her and Matt, because with their self-imposed ban on heroing he’s had a lot more free time on his hands and Ned was busy, okay, and his aunt was out of the house today and he’s been _bored_. Coming out to Hell’s Kitchen seemed like a quick fix to that problem. Until he stumbled on this gang – at least he’s mostly positive it’s a gang, they’re wearing matching jackets with Jackals on the back, and holy fuck, does _that _ping something in the back of Michaela’s panicked hindbrain – and they were maybe-possibly attempting some kidnapping-human trafficking thing, and Peter couldn’t just look the other way, it’s not how he’s wired.

He has the mask on him most days out of habit, so he chucked his bag and slipped it on and went to subdue the gang members, only, like he said, they got a lucky shot on him. The bullet caught his web-shooter and promptly destroyed it, and then someone caught on to the fact that Spidey’s webs aren’t a biological feature of his and went for the _other _web-shooter. Which he also destroyed. Peter’s acrobatics would probably have been enough to get out of there regardless, but he’s got two girls with him (_tweens_, he calls them, and Michaela would love to laugh if she didn’t currently feel like she’s going to vomit up the contents of her entire chest cavity), and yeah, one would be fine, he could hold her and wall-crawl away, but two makes things a little more challenging.

Which is when he decided calling Michaela should be his next course of action.

Now he’s got the younger girl on his back and he’s shepherding the other one ahead of them, and he’s freaking out.

“You’re gonna be fine, kid, okay? You and the other kids, everything’s gonna be alright. Just – keep on an eye out, I’m almost to your location, and. Hold on a second, okay? Hold on, I’m not hanging up, I’m just moving the phone away from my ear for a second, I gotta text Matt—”

She’s not making the same mistake, okay? She’s not. Matt’s going to be upset, he has every right to be, but she’s not going into this without a backup plan like every other superhero gig she’s ever attempted. It’s a quick message, as short as she can make it while still conveying all the relevant details. And she knows Matt stayed late at the office tonight, he has a client who can’t meet during the day and he and Foggy are trying to be their sweet accommodating selves; there’s every chance he’s not going to be check his phone any time soon, even if it is Michaela texting him, but she promised him she wouldn’t take risks without at least _trying _to get him involved, and she’s honoring that. Badly, probably, but she figures the whole thing’s based on intent, anyway. Matt will understand.

She’s just tucking her phone back against her ear when she hears the _crack _of a gunshot, a high-pitched scream right on its heels, and all the air leaves her lungs in a rush.

“Blackout!”

She doesn’t have the disconnect she used to, hearing her hero name called out to her on a random street corner, and she’s grateful for it now. Michaela doesn’t hesitate to swivel towards the source, picking out Peter and his two charges, as well as the six men on their tail. Six men – six guns, too, she sees the shadow of them in the glare of the streetlight – all of them decked out in Jackals gear. Christ, she’s seen these guys once or twice since the night she met Daredevil, but it’s been for petty crimes – looting, that one time, and she thinks one of them might’ve been trying to go all _Grand Theft Auto _before she zapped his ass. Human trafficking, though, that’s – new.

The electricity’s crackling in her hands before she’s really thought to bring it out, and Peter’s head snaps up, either at the sound or the sight of it, his shoulders sagging slightly in relief. She doesn’t need to warn him – does it anyway, yells _duck _with as much composure as she can mine from her depleted stores– and he grabs the older girl and rolls them out of the strike zone, just as Michaela lets loose bolts from both hands. Her aim’s gotten better over the past year or so, but it’s still satisfying to see two of the men jerk almost simultaneously, the guns flying from their hands and clattering to the ground.

She’s gotten better at control, too, partly due to Lincoln’s patience and Matt’s insistence that she hone her skills. Murder might not be on the table, but possibly debilitating nerve damage? Yeah, she’s not all that fussed about it.

Michaela manages to shock another gun to the ground, but she’s not Luke, fuck, she’s not bullet-proof, and her survival instincts kick in right around the moment she feels the line of heat zip past her right shoulder. _Fuck_, fuck, it’s a graze, she knows that, knows it could be worse, and her body compensates without conscious input on her part, ducks and rolls to follow Peter into whatever coverage he’s scrounged up for himself. But fuck her, that _hurts_.

“Michaela,” Peter breathes as she comes to a jerky stop next to him, clutching at her bleeding arm and probably giving off some serious _we’re fucked vibes _going off the wide-eyed looks she’s getting from the kiddos. “What’re we gonna do?”

She blinks, bemused. He’s asking _her_ what the plan is? She came here out of blind devotion to his absolute nerd of a hero, she didn’t factor in _consequences _or _strategy_.

“Call the cops?” she suggests, vaguely curious if anyone in the neighborhood already has. Gun shots are depressingly commonplace in Hell’s Kitchen, it wouldn’t be surprising if no one bothered calling them in tonight. Seeing a couple of known vigilantes out and about, though, that might be more tempting, especially with the reward for any information regarding their whereabouts she’s seen posted, online and on newsstands. Michaela grimaces. “Shit, scratch that. No police until we’re able to safely scram.”

“Can’t you just fry those guys?” the girl on Peter’s back pipes up, which gets Peter tensing up in surprise, like he forgot she was there. Hell, he might’ve – she’s seen the weight he can haul around, a kid that size probably isn’t much of a strain.

“Uh,” Michaela says, wincing, and only partly because of the muffled cursing she can hear from just beyond the mouth of the alley they’re crouched in. “Uh, yeah, technically? But I try not to, ya know. Kill people. If I can help it.”

“But they’re _bad_,” the girl points out, exasperated. The other girl – and they might be sisters, their faces not identical but their bone structure similar enough that Michaela’s willing to bet they’re related _somehow_, however distantly – nods her agreement, her eyes wet with tears but with no less conviction than her. Sister. Cousin. Family relation. “Heroes kill bad guys all the time.”

“Uh,” Michaela says again, eloquent as always. She darts a glance at Peter, who is no help whatso-fucking-ever; he just stares back at her from behind his bottle-cap lenses, shoulders hitching higher the closer the group of gun-toting dicks get to them. They’re gonna have to move, like _now_, because if Michaela can hear them than they’ve gotten way too far already. “No killing,” she says, jabbing a suspiciously parental finger at the younger girl, who huffs and rolls her eyes but otherwise doesn’t fight her. “I’ll – distract them. Uh. Yeah, okay, yeah, I’ll be the decoy, Spidey can get you two outta here—”

“Wait, what?” Peter shakes his head, not unlike a dog trying to shake off a leaf, or. Something. Michaela’s cognitive function isn’t really being funneled into pithy comparisons at the moment, she’ll cut herself some slack. “That is _not _happening, Michaela, you’ll get shot!”

Michaela frowns, pressing her hand a little tighter against her bleeding arm. She already got shot, thanks. And what the hell? Where’s the faith? Is that a Matt-exclusive trait, or is Michaela that disappointing as a vigilante? Or maybe it’s a combination – she could see that. Understand it, even.

Still.

“Kid,” she says, her eyebrows lifting at the way he leans forward, like he plans to interject. “Vigilante seniority applies here.”

“I’ve been a vigilante longer than you have!”

Michaela pauses. She tilts her head a little, weighing that, then shrugs to concede the point. “Okay, fair. But I’m _older_, and what I say goes. You trusted me before, yeah? With Cato.”

“You _almost died_, Jesus, you’re not making a great case for yourself.”

“Not everyone can be Matt! Fuck, never mind, just.” Michaela inclines her head towards the girl closest to her, who’s watching their exchange with glossy eyes. What they’re saying is clearly going over her head, her attention fixated on them only because they’re talking and they’re something to anchor her focus. Michaela’s been there, she gets it. Shock does a number on you, no matter how many times you’ve gone through it. “You said you wanna be a hero, Spidey. Be a hero and make the sacrifice play, get these girls somewhere safe.”

Peter wants to argue, she can see it in the tense line of his shoulders, the white-knuckle grip he has on the fabric of his pants. But she also sees the moment he gives in, slumping just enough to have the girl on his back let out a tiny squeak of protest. He’s upright again, moving his hands to curl under her knobby knees, and she shifts her arms around his neck to get a better grip. He holds out a hand to the other girl and she scrambles to take it, scraping her knees in her haste.

“I can handle a few assholes, Spidey,” she says, smiling under the mask so her eyes crinkle, so Peter can _tell _she’s smiling. “Besides, I texted Matt. He’ll be here soon, he can help with clean-up.” When he hesitates, she stands and gestures behind him, sparks rippling across her skin, too loud in the silence. “Get going before I decide to demote you. Or, ya know, confiscate that vigilante card of yours.”

“You’re not the boss of us,” Peter says, but he’s getting to his feet nonetheless. Michaela’s smile widens a fraction. “If it’s anyone, it’s Daredevil.”

“Eh, he won’t mind me stealing the spotlight for a while. ‘Snot like I do it a lot.”

“Okay, but—”

“Spidey, if you’re gone by the time I count to three, I’m taking that burner phone off you—”

He sighs. “I’m going, I’m going! Just – just stay safe, okay?”

Michaela raises a hand and mock salutes. “Can do, Spidey!”

As soon as Michaela’s sure he’s cleared the alleyway, his charges in tow, she spins around to fire off a warning shot at Bad Guy #1, who’s just edged around the trunk of the badly parked car they’d been using as cover. He hisses, patting at the electrical burn streaked across his jacket, but he doesn’t drop the gun, and he’s – got a knife in his other hand. Fantastic. More deadly weapons. But hey, this one’s metal – much better conductor than the plastic casing on the guns.

Without the distraction of two civilians and a grounded Peter, Michaela’s more than willing to throw her lightning around – glancing off cars, scorching marks into the street, trying to take these guys down without causing them any serious damage. She just needs them out of commission for a while, long enough for her to make an anonymous tip to the cops and get them picked up by the _right people_. You know, go through the proper channels, which – that’s what she and Matt and everyone else has been doing from the start. Well. Matt to a lesser degree, okay, he beat the shit out of people for a while there, though he _did _phone in the police more often than not or got a passerby to do it for him. He just. He was just a little extra with his justice, is all.

A clean shot to a wrist – another muffled shout and the gun leaves his hand, the guy dropping to his knees and cradling his burnt hand against his chest.

A light touch to another guy’s side, and the shock is mild but it gets him to curl in on himself, which Michaela takes full advantage of – Matt didn’t suffer through all their sparring sessions for nothing.

A well-placed kick to the back, electricity passing easily through her non-rubber soles, and that’s three down.

Michaela ducks under another baddie’s arm as he swings at her, his gun lost in the chaos, then surges forward to elbow his arm back and slide a foot between both of his, hooking it around one ankle and _yanking _until he yelps and falls back. He grabs for her jacket on the way down but she steps back, her clothes sparking and catching the tips of his fingers. She’s learned how to play defense after all this time, and goddamn does it feel good to actually get a chance to _prove _she’s changed. Gotten better, honed her skills.

Of course, the moment that thought crosses her mind is when the bullet lodges itself in her thigh.

“_Fuck_,” she gasps, staggering back a step, which was a _mistake_, fuck, her leg is on fire, she’s fucking _burning_, and her knees suddenly can’t support her weight. She fumbles to grab onto something, anything, but nothing’s in reach and she hits the ground, another gasp torn from her lips as she clamps a hand over the wound. Fuck, _fuck_, she’s—her breathing’s picking up, her heart jackrabbiting in her chest. Blood roars in her ears, seeps through her trembling fingers, and she tears her eyes away from the sight, whipping her head around to—

The guy’s gun is raised again – bright red burns on his wrist, his grip shaky but holding, _goddamn it Matt warned her, make sure the guns are out of reach! _– his trigger finger sliding back—

And then he’s knocked sideways, the gun going _flying_, and Peter’s there, crouched in the space recently vacated by gun-toting baddie.

Michaela can’t breathe.

“Michaela! Michaela, shit, you’re—that’s a lot of blood, _ohmygod_, we need to call, uh, call an ambulance. Call nine-one-one. Right? That’s—” Peter skids over to her, hands frantically moving over her but unwilling to touch.

“Fucking _fuck_,” she hisses, pressing down harder on her leg despite the instinctual desire to never touch her leg ever again, like, she would maybe rather lose both hands than apply pressure but _she’s doing it_, because not doing it means possibly bleeding out and really, she’s traumatized Peter enough for one lifetime as it is, she can’t add to that. “Peter, why are you—”

“They’re safe,” he says, quick and panicked, finally making a decision and ripping off part of his sleeve – and Jesus Christ, it’s only fabric but she forgets how strong this kid is – so he can wad it up and hold it to the wound. She moves her hands to accommodate, knowing there isn’t really a point to arguing with him when he’s trying to help her. “I got them – they’re hiding out in this convenience store, the owner’s gonna call the police so they can go home, but, like, _Michaela_, I couldn’t leave you here! That’s, that’s like the opposite of what the vigilante buddy club is for!”

“I… uh, I can’t really argue with that,” Michaela says, and she’s laughing a little but it’s strained and Peter is definitely not amused. In fact, the tension in his shoulders only gets worse, hiking them up near his ears. He freezes, his head snapping up, and she can’t see his eyes but she knows he’s looking right at her. “What? Peter, what, why are you freaking out _more_?”

But, well, she doesn’t need him to answer, because in the next second it becomes very fucking obvious what’s gotten him so high-strung.

Sirens. Police sirens, rapidly closing the distance.

Fuckity fucking _fuck_.

“Don’t even say it,” Peter says, wrapping his fingers tight around her wrist. She blinks, taken aback by how forceful he sounds, by the fine tremble infecting his hand. “Don’t, okay? I’m not leaving without you, Michaela. It’s just – not happening, end of story. Friends don’t abandon each other.”

Well, damn. There goes her grand plan to take the heat and let Peter off the hook. How dare she try to protect him, huh?

“Help me up,” she urges, and Peter hesitates for only a beat before he’s slipping an arm around her and easing her to her feet. Taking any weight on her injured leg makes her want to scream and subsequently bite off her fucking tongue, but she swallows it down, tries to ignore the pain (failing miserably, but she supposes anyone could guess that) as she and Peter make their way towards the alley at a pathetically slow pace.

“Pete, you can carry me, right?”

Peter looks at her sharply. “Uh, yes? Yes! I can do that! Oh, I’m stupid, I should’ve just—”

“Don’t worry about it. But, uh, maybe hurry? We don’t have a lot of time.”

“Right, yeah, gotcha!”

They get as far as the mouth of the alley before the street’s blocked off, three squad cars in total. The lights flash red and blue against the brick walls of the buildings around them, highlighting the grave faces of the cops that surround them. Oh, look, they’re all packing heat, very practical of them.

Michaela feels Peter staring at her, waiting for her to come up with some brilliant plan to get them out of this. After all, she’s evaded the cops twice, right?

Except both times she had SHIELD backing her, and with the Accords and the general state of the world right now, she doesn’t think she can count on them to come to her rescue this time around. SHIELD isn’t going to stick its neck out for a random pair of New York vigilantes when they have their own enhanced agents to protect.

Michaela slowly extricates herself from Peter’s arms despite his protests. Every cop trains their gun on her, watching for a toe out of line so they have the excuse to shoot. Probably – that’s been her experience, anyway. But it’s good, sort of; the more they’re looking at her, the less attention they’re paying Peter, which he would take advantage of _if he wasn’t such a soft-hearted dumbass_. Before she can even _hint _to him that he should wall-crawl out of her as fast as he fucking can, he’s grabbing her hand, linking their fingers together.

She could shock them, the police officers. She could do it, and even though she’s bleeding heavily and feeling more than a little groggy, she figures she could even manage to do it without killing anyone, herself included. She could—

“Hands up!”

Michaela barely resists the urge to groan. She lifts her hands, Peter doing the same, keeping them linked, and she feels the barrel of a gun poke into back, right between her shoulder blades. Fuck, she should’ve noticed them coming up from behind, that’s a classic tactical maneuver. _Matt _would’ve noticed, Peter might’ve—well. Maybe he did notice. Maybe he put it together faster than she did that there’s now way out of this. Michaela _could _shock the shit out of all of these officers, but there’s no guarantee she’ll hit them all, no guarantee they’ll all go down, and in her current state, no guarantee she won’t hit Peter in the crossfire. Still, she’s facing some sort of superhero-proof jail, maybe it’s worth the risk—

She finally gets a good look at one of the officers as he steps forward, gun raised, his other hand reaching for a pair of cuffs at his belt. This isn’t the usual boys in blue – _fuck_, they’re wearing armor over their uniforms. Specialized armor, and from the slight squeaking she hears whenever one of the moves, she’s willing to bet it’s plastic, or infused with some kind of plastic fibers. Something that doesn’t conduct electricity well. They came prepared, huh.

She and Peter get cuffed, and even _that’s _weird, because they’re not normal cuffs. Hers are plastic, but reinforced, like they also weren’t sure of her strength levels; Peter’s look like they’d give the Hulk a run for his money. If that weren’t bad enough, they also get – she can’t think of a better to say this, they get _collared_. Like, legitimately, one of the cops snaps a metal collar around her throat, and Michaela flinches at the cold bite of steel on her sensitive skin.

And it’s, it’s not just a collar, right, because what would be the point of that?

“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you,” the cop in front of them says, gesturing to his own throat. “Either of you use your powers and that collar activates. Designed to put pressure on your windpipe until you fall unconscious. And the casing around the wiring protects it from being overloaded, so your electricity wouldn’t do you much good anyhow,” he adds, pointedly staring at Michaela.

She furrows her brow, frowning under the mask. These clearly aren’t standard issue, which means the government’s been busier than she thought. What organization came up with these? How do they know they _work_? Because it seems to her like they would have to have tested it on someone who’s enhanced, you know, the make sure it does what it says on the tin. And fuck does that make her mad, even through the haze of blood loss she’s quickly losing the battle to.

They’re read their rights, which is all well good considering Michaela has no inclination to speak right now, then loaded into the back of two separate squad cars. She catches a glimpse of someone ripping the mask from Peter’s head, the quiet murmuring as they all take in how _young _he is, before her head’s shoved down and she’s basically pushed into the backseat. Before the door’s shut someone reaches in and tugs down her own mask, and she scowls at them, bares her teeth knowing it doesn’t mean a fucking thing. The door slams shut.

Michaela’s sags back against the seat, like all her strings have been cut. Fuck. _Fuck_, what is she going to do? They’re going to interrogate them, they’ll want information about the other vigilantes and—

Matt.

Oh, god. _Matt_.

He’s going to be devastated, furious. And she can’t warn him, can she? She might not even get a phone call, but if she does they’ll be monitoring it, and she’s not clever enough to let Matt in on what’s going on without actually saying the words, she’ll mess up and out him if she’s not careful. Fuck, everything hurts, she can barely think through the pain; they’re going to do something about that, right, they’re not planning on letting her bleed out in the back of their cruiser before they’ve had a chance to process her. That’s—that would be bad of them. Real fucking bad.

Collar or not, there’s a good chance she’s going to pass out long before they reach the precinct.


	30. chapter twenty-five | how to become fugitives of the law: a step-by-step guide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaela and the law have never mixed well. No wonder she attracts the friends she does.

She doesn’t die from the gunshot wound, which is a plus, but she also doesn’t get that phone call, which – not so great, really. She’s not sure who she’d call if she had the option (with a clearer head she’s even less interested in contacting Matt, even though she’s making herself sick over the fact that the last thing she sent to him was that text, right before she caught up with Peter) but she’d have liked _the option_, at least.

They confiscate her phone – just the one, she hadn’t had the burner phone on her since she had Peter and Matt’s actual numbers on her actual phone – and stow her in one of their interrogation rooms after she’s treated and deemed relatively healthy (or, in more specific terms, they figure she won’t keel over in the next few hours, so she’s good enough to get put through the verbal wringer). She’s plastic-cuffed to the table, with an additional cuff around her ankle that’s anchored to the floor, and she’s been staring at the pock-marked ceiling for the last – god, she wishes she had a watch, her internal clock is shit – probably half hour, forty-five minutes?

Michaela knows jack-shit about police procedures, aside from the heavily embellished ones on like, _Law & Order _or whatever, but this seems pretty stereotypical to her. Leaving her to sweat in a room by herself, just so they can swoop in once she’s shown signs of cracking? Maybe she’s misjudged day-time television and gritty detective novels all these years – maybe they actually got something right. Who would’ve guessed, huh?

She wonders idly why the ceiling is as marked up as it is. Do suspects get _that _rowdy when they’re in here? Does shit get thrown and scuff up the walls and the ceiling and do the police just. Ignore it, every time they come in here? Yeah, she could ignore it, but that’s mostly because her fucking sieve of a brain forgets about things before she has a chance to deal with them, unless they’re like. Life threatening. And even then it’s a toss up half the time.

Fuck, this tactic isn’t that bad, she’s well on her way to driving herself insane and it hasn’t even been a full hour yet.

The only bright spot in all this is that she’s so far beyond her initial panic that she’s – kinda numb to everything. No shakes, no too-fast heartbeat, no asthmatic breathing. She’s in pain and her head’s been pounding since they sat her down on this uncomfortable as fuck metal chair and she doesn’t know where Peter is, what they’re doing to him, what they’re trying to get out of him, and she’s worried, of course she is, but it’s. Almost like it’s on the backburner, present but not at the forefront of her thoughts. She can’t say she’s had this happen before, and she figures, best case scenario, it all comes crashing down on her in the next couple hours and she’s a sobbing mess on the floor or sprawled out over this table, but. She’d rather have this numbness than her usual brand of anxiety and nausea, even it’s only temporary.

At some point the door opens and in walks a woman in a pants suit. Mid-forties, maybe, minimal makeup, brown eyes and blonde hair she’s got pinned up at the back of her head. Her suit’s charcoal, the kitten heels black and shiny. Michaela squints at her, trying to gauge her mood, but her expression’s carefully neutral. She pulls out the chair opposite Michaela and sits down, laying a thick manilla folder on the table in front of her.

“Michaela, is it? Michaela King?” The woman flips open the folder and glances down at it, looking up through her lashes at Michaela as she adds, “Or do you prefer Blackout?”

Michaela sighs and slumps in her chair, the chain of her cuffs rattling against the table. _Clink-clink-clink_. They’re gonna go through this song and dance after all. She’d been sort of hoping that her status as a vigilante meant they wouldn’t have to _confirm _she’s a vigilante. The light show had to give her away, there’s no other New York-based hero that regularly emits sparks from their fucking body. Thor doesn’t count, he’s from _Asgard_, for fuck’s sake, and it’s not like she could pass for him anyway.

Rolling her eyes, Michaela scrunches up a little so she can tap at the collar around her throat with her bound hands. “I seriously doubt you guys woulda gone through the trouble of putting this on if you had any doubts about my identity. And my prints are in the system, so I _know _you don’t need the confirmation about my real name.”

“Yes,” the woman says, frowning, her fingers tapping at the folder. “You were arrested – five years ago? For public intoxication?”

Michaela snorts. Right, yeah, five years ago she’d been clawing her way back to some semblance of a decent living, and she couldn’t always handle it sober. The bar kicked her out and she made up for it by blowing half her paycheck on whatever alcohol she could get her hands on, and, well. Got picked up by the cops for causing a drunken disturbance, or however they phrased it. She got off with community service and eased off the drinking. Public drinking, anyway.

“You know so much about me,” Michaela says, tilting her head. “I’m at a disadvantage, and like, I know _you _don’t care about the power dynamics, but I’d feel a little _chattier _if I had a name to go with your resting bitch face. What are you, anyway? A detective? Beat cops don’t dress that nice.”

The woman’s expression doesn’t so much as twitch. “Special Agent Matthews. I’m with the FBI, assigned to a task force that deals specifically with violations of the Sokovian Accords. You’re aware the Accords went into effect twenty-four days ago, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m aware.”

“Then you’re also aware that you’ve broke the law tonight.”

“Uh-huh.”

Matthews narrows her eyes. “You don’t seem very concerned about that.”

Michaela shrugs, tucking her legs in under the chair – or, at least as much as she can with the ankle cuff’s short leash. “Technically I’ve been breaking the law since I started the whole Blackout thing. But I thought the pros outweighed the cons. Still think that, if I’m being honest.”

“You’re an enhanced individual who isn’t registered with the United States government, meaning you aren’t authorized to use your powers in any capacity. The _cons _here hold more weight than you would think, Ms. King.”

“Right,” Michaela says. “Okay, sure, I’m not registered. There wasn’t a _registry _until the Accords came out, and – let me just get something straight. This is just enhanced individuals, people with powers. Not people like Tony Stark, or Colonel Rhodes, yeah?”

“Mr. Stark—”

“Wasn’t charged with a goddamn thing after he nearly took out an entire block in Brooklyn. He’s not an Avenger anymore, but who gives a fuck? He wasn’t _authorized _to attack Steve Rogers in broad fucking daylight, in the man’s fucking home, and – what? No one cares? But I go out there and I try to _help people _and suddenly I’m – I’m a criminal? Because I didn’t get the government’s approval to use my powers? Never mind that I’ve never like, seriously hurt anyone, or that I always hand bad guys over to the cops, no, that doesn’t matter. I’m as bad as a fucking terrorist all because I don’t want to be the government’s fucking attack dog.”

Fuck. Michaela tips her head back, eyes squeezed shut. She got herself worked up without even noticing, and now she can barely get a breath in past the lump in her throat. Her heart pounds against her rib cage, rapid fire, and sweat’s pooling at the small of her back, slicking up her palms. Meanwhile Matthews says nothing for a minute or two, the only sound in the room Michaela’s ineffective attempts to get herself under control.”

Then:

“You’re still a criminal according to the Accords, Ms. King.”

“Yeah,” Michaela mumbles, huffing out a tired laugh, “yeah, I figured that.”

“I’m here to offer you a deal, though.” Michaela lifts her head enough to peer at Matthews, who’s flipping to a specific page in the folder. When she finds what she’s looking for, she plucks the paper out and slides it across the table towards Michaela, spinning it to face her. “You friend, Mr. Parker, already agreed to sign this. If you provide us with information regarding the other vigilantes – Jessica Jones, Luke Cage, and Daredevil – the government is willing to mitigate the charges against you and offer—”

“Peter agreed to this?” Michaela asks, baffled, barely glancing at the paper. She’s staring hard at Matthews, her bullshit detector going absolutely haywire. “Peter Parker? That’s the line you wanna go with?”

“Ms. King, whether or not you want to believe me, Mr. Parker _did _sign, and he—”

“Then what do you need me for?”

“Excuse me?” Matthews blinks, pausing, her hand still over the pen she’d been reaching for.

Michaela lifts a brow. “Why would you need me to give you all the juicy details about the others if you have Peter’s signature already? Also, he’s like fifteen, you aren’t charging him as an adult, are you?”

“That’s—age isn’t a factor with the Accords—”

“Fuck you, Agent Matthews.” Michaela rattles the cuffs again. “You wanna haul me off to some super-secret government facility for enhanced criminals, then do it. I’m not signing, I’m not telling you _fuck all _about my friends. Whatever your offer is, I’ll pass.”

There’s a moment of silence before Matthews sighs and grabs the paper, sliding it back into the folder and snapping it shut. She stands, doesn’t say a word to Michaela, and leaves – or, tries to leave. There’s a knock at the door just as she’s grabbing the handle, and though she doesn’t show it Michaela guesses Matthews wasn’t expecting to be interrupted. She opens the door to another woman, also in a pants suit, and their whispered conversation ends with Matthews stepping out and the newcomer taking her place, even sitting down with Michaela.

Michaela opens her mouth but the woman – shorter than Matthews, short brunette hair, glasses that overemphasize her blue eyes – holds up a hand. Michaela’s tempted to talk regardless but the look this woman shoots her gives her pause. It looks – familiar. The shape of her mouth, the slant of her brows… but not her actual face. Michaela’s never seen this woman before in her life.

The lights flicker, once, twice – and then the woman lowers her hand and folds them together atop the table, leaning forward.

“Michaela. Long time no see. You’ve been busy.”

The fuck.

“I – can honestly say I have no fucking clue what’s going on, but that’s par for the course, so why don’t you just explain it to me. Small words, please, I’m still in shock.”

The woman – except, no, that’s not accurate. Because unless Michaela’s hallucinating, the woman sitting across from her is _Natasha fucking Romanoff_, kitted out in some sort of incredibly high-quality mask and wig and passing as some random government agent to the point where Agent Matthews barely questioned her credentials.

Natasha smiles, small but pleased. “You held your own in there with Matthews, I’m impressed. The Parker kid refused to talk at first, but then he started with the nervous babble and… well. He didn’t say anything important, but he’s not made for spy work despite his admirable skillset.”

That gets Michaela bolting upright in her chair. “Peter’s okay? He’s… is he here still?”

“Yes, but not for long. You’re both due to be transported out of the state in the next hour, then shipped out to the Raft. Which is what they call the super-secret government facility for enhanced criminals, in case you were wondering.”

Michaela’s eyes dart around the room, knowing they’re being monitored. Natasha must read the anxiety in her expression, because she subtly shakes her head, drawing Michaela’s attention back to her.

“Don’t worry about them listening in. I disabled their audio before I came in. It’ll take them a good fifteen minutes to get it back online. The tech here is so much less sophisticated than what I’ve been dealing with in recent years, I almost felt bad about messing with it.” She shrugs. “But needs must, and I wasn’t going to let you and Parker rot for violating bullshit laws.”

“I… but you stayed. With the Avengers. You didn’t, uh, didn’t go with Rogers and the others…

Natasha’s mouth tightens at the corners, but she smooths it over with a slight smile in the next moment. “I did. The why isn’t important right now, though – I just need to know if you trust me.”

When Michaela doesn’t respond right away, Natasha smirks. “I won’t be offended if you don’t, Michaela. I’m not Steve, I know I don’t inspire trust in people without a lot of effort on my part.”

“No, shit, that’s not—” Michaela swallows, shakes her head. Her sweaty palms are _itching _and she feels like her thoughts are spinning a mile a minute. “I just. I trust you but – why?”

She doesn’t need to explain it. Natasha’s features soften slightly, and it must be deliberate but Michaela doesn’t even care, it’s more comforting than she has words for at the moment.

“You’re not a criminal, Michaela. You or Parker. And for that matter, Steve and the others aren’t either. I can’t help him, not yet, but I can do something for you. I _want _to do something. Steve likes you, Thor likes you. Clint wanted to meet you before the Accords happened. And more than that… you’ve done a lot of good for this city. You deserve some help in return.”

Michaela – she exhales sharply, fighting back the familiar burn of tears at the backs of her eyes. Her hands clench and unclench, nails biting half-moons into her palms. This is. A lot. She can’t process even half of what Natasha’s saying but that’s – alright. It’s fine, she can, she’ll have time later to sit down and sort through everything. ‘Cause that’s the point of this, she’ll _have time_, because Natasha isn’t going to let her get tossed into superhero jail, and if anyone can get her out of here undetected, it’s the Black Widow. Her _and _Peter, they’re not leaving him behind.

Okay. Okay, she can. She can get on board with this. Except—

“Before we, before we get into anything else, can you, uh. Can you do something for me? It’s small, I promise, it shouldn’t like, be that big a deal…”

“You want me to get a message to Murdock?”

Michaela very consciously decides not to ask how Natasha knows she’s dating Matt, or at least that they’re close enough for her to want to get a message to him. She takes the gift for what it is and just nods. “Yeah, yeah, I can’t, I can’t contact him, ya know, don’t know when or if I’m gonna be able to, and the last text he got from me… fuck, I don’t want him to worry more than he has to. He’s gonna hear my name in the news if he hasn’t already and he doesn’t… he doesn’t deserve all this, but I can’t fix everything and I just wanna do what I can for him.”

Natasha grins as she stands up, glancing up briefly at the camera Michaela clocked in the corner an hour ago, then moving around the table and producing a key from – somewhere. Her outfit doesn’t have _pockets _but Michaela long past questioning this woman and the many tricks she’s got up her sleeves. Natasha undoes the cuffs – wrists and ankle – and when Michaela’s on her feet, she catches her by the arm, getting her to look up at her.

“I’ll make sure he knows what’s happening,” she says, and it’s solemn like a fucking vow and Michaela _is not going to start crying, this is so not the time for her theatrics_. She sniffles once, then swipes her sleeve over her nose and nods, then gestures for Natasha to lead the way. They’re still in the middle of the precinct and Natasha might’ve disabled the audio, maybe even the video, but they can’t just walk outta here.

Apparently they can.

Natasha helps Michaela put on the mask – some kind of holographic tech, the explanation goes right over her head and she can’t bring herself to give a shit – and assures her it’s working, she doesn’t look a thing like herself. She also promises Peter already got his mask, that she has a friend helping him out as they speak.

“We’ll have a sixty second window to get you and Parker out of the building,” Natasha says, turning towards the door. “Don’t run, don’t fidget. Don’t act like you’re out of place.” She slips Michaela an ID – Eliza Brown, Special Agent – that she clips to the waist of her pants (and Natasha says her appearance doesn’t matter, agents go undercover all the time, they can explain it away if they need to and Michaela’s trying damn hard to believe her). “Nothing is wrong. There was an oversight on the New York vigilante case, they sent us as back-up before they realized it wasn’t necessary. Okay?”

“Okay,” Michaela says, and she’s like, sixty-percent sure of herself at this point.

Natasha’s smile is grounding and reassuring and she takes what comfort she can from the sight of it.

“Then let’s go, Agent Brown.”

“After you, Agent McKinley.”  
  
  


_______________________

**epilogue | peter parker snores and michaela loves him anyway (also they’re fugitives, whoops) **

Michaela rolls over, groaning into the mattress even as she’s dragging one of the flimsy pillows over her ears. It doesn’t little to stifle the sound of Peter’s obnoxiously loud snoring but it’s the thought that counts more than anything. God, she loves this kid, she does, but if she’d known that he sounded like a goddamn foghorn in his sleep she might’ve insisted on separate rooms, regardless of the security risk.

This is the tenth night in a row she’s suffered through this, and it hasn’t gotten any more tolerable. She’s tried waking him up, but he just falls back asleep almost instantly and the snoring starts back up within seconds. She’s tried ear plugs but _she _can’t sleep with them, and anyway they didn’t block out the ambient noises, let alone _Peter_.

Settling on her back, Michaela flings the pillow away dramatically, because who’s gonna see it besides her, no one can judge her anymore than she’s judging herself. She reluctantly opens her eyes, letting them adjust a moment before she glances at the clock on the bedside table. _3:54 AM_. Ugh. She’s not a stranger to sleepless nights but it doesn’t mean she enjoys them, and that’s even less true when she’s got Peter’s chainsaw snoring going on three feet away from her. Being awake in the middle of the night leaves her with entirely too much to time to think, and these days there’s not an ounce of optimism left in her to block out all the nasty worst case scenarios that run on a loop through her consciousness every waking hour.

_Fuck_, she misses Matt.

She misses Matt and his warmth and the way he holds onto her whether she’s sleeping or not, because he knows it gives her something to focus on, something to ground herself when her thoughts spiral out of control. She misses his laugh and his smile and, god help her, she misses his _sass_. What she wouldn’t give to have him hear, teasing her about bad she is at being a fugitive and then gently correcting her so she doesn’t get any of them caught or, you know, killed. Or something.

Natasha kept her word and got them out of the precinct. Got them of New York, out of the country. She had help but she wouldn’t say who it was from, though she did let it slip to Michaela that she’d right about SHIELD getting involved – they’ve got their own problems, and while there are people sympathetic to her and Peter (Skye, she figures, since she doubts Coulson really cares about her so long as she’s not trying to take over the world; maybe Lincoln if she’s feeling generous towards herself) they can’t risk getting tangled with anyone actively breaking the law, no matter how stupid they all consider said law.

Anyway, Natasha got them set up with more than passable fake IDs and let them keep the holo-tech masks, though also told them that they can’t use them much longer. They’ve got a specific energy signature that the government will eventually key into, and then they’ll basically be beacons that’ll lead the government right to their doorstep. Which, currently, is a run-down hotel (motel? Michaela doesn’t actually know the difference, but either way she feels unclean just from laying on the bed) that Natasha paid for upfront. They’ve got two weeks here, and then – well. Then Natasha supposedly comes back and escorts them to the next “safe house.”

_Supposedly _because Natasha only said that someone would be there to escort them. She didn’t even imply she’d be the one doing it. Which is. Terrifying, really. Natasha’s at least a friendly face, someone Michaela does genuinely trust, and if it’s not her—

Michaela will just have to cope. She doesn’t have much of a choice if she wants to stay out of the Raft. And fuck, does she want to steer clear of that place. Natasha’s done some digging and from what she’s told Michaela, the place is one step above a torture chamber for powered people. _That’s _where they want to send Peter, who’s never done a damn thing wrong in his life. Except lie to her aunt about being Spider-Man – which, fuck, Michaela tries not to think about what May is going through right now, with Peter in the wind and the entire country painting him as a some vicious criminal.

He’s fifteen, and he’s a fugitive. Michaela failed fucking spectacularly as his makeshift mentor, thank god she never let Bailey become her sidekick. And also, thank god for Natasha, because not only has she agreed to keep an eye on Matt, but she’s also promised she’ll make sure Bailey doesn’t do anything to get noticed by the wrong people. Michaela’s asking too much of her, but she _needs _this reassurance, and Natasha seems pretty willing to give it, so Michaela’ll keep abusing the privilege until Natasha takes it back from her.

Michaela sighs and reaches for the phone Natasha left with them. It’s an upgrade from her burner phone, but the only number stored in it is one Natasha gave her, and it was with the caveat that Michaela only contact her if there’s an emergency. Peter’s snoring doesn’t qualify, though Michaela is pretty damn close to making a case for it.

_4:02_. She just looks at the screen blankly until it times out and goes dark, then lights it up again. Still 4:02. Biting her lip, Michaela types in the password and swipes through to the limited apps. There’s a few audio books downloaded, one of which is in Russian and is probably a joke Michaela is never going to understand, but as long as the unintelligible words drown out Peter’s snoring she can’t she cares. She’s got a pair of cheap headphones she picked up yesterday from the closest store and they’ll crap out on her in a week, tops, but they’ll do for now.

She wedges them into her ears, queuing up the audio book—

“Michaela!”

The phone slips from her hands and clatters to the floor as she twists around, wide-eyed. Peter’s awake, perched on the edge of his bed, hair stuck up on one side and flat on the other. He’s kicked the blanket away and it’s half on the floor, and he’s scrambling to get to his feet even as he’s still whispering frantically at her.

“Someone’s at the door, we gotta hide!”

Someone’s at the—? The adrenaline floods her in a rush, and she wrestles out her own blankets, scooting across the bed until she can flail around and Peter’s close enough to grab her hand. She tugs him closer, nearly onto her own bed, shushing him as he opens his mouth again. They sit there, breathing heavily, and – Michaela hears it. Footsteps, quiet but sure, muffled by the outdated carpet of the hallway. They pause just outside their door, but the silence only lasts a couple of seconds before there’s a soft knock.

Michaela nearly jumps out of her skin when the phone she dropped buzzes, and Peter has to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle his squeak. She darts a glance at him, willing him to keep his cool even as she’s rapidly losing hers, then slides over to pluck the phone from the floor. It lights up as she rights it, and there’s a text message notification on the screen.

**Itsy Bitsy: **_He’s friendly. Open the door_.

Uh. Okay, then. She said she trusted Natasha and that’s apparently going to stand even when they aren’t in the same time zone.

Peter quiets down when she shows him the text, doesn’t offer much of a protest as she gets to her feet, edging closer to the door. Another knock, no less gentle this time. Michaela – well, she’s at the point where her life is just so much of a fucking mess than it really can’t get any worse short of them getting caught. And Natasha’s claiming that’s not going to the case. She trusts her, she does; she can open the door.

So she does.

“Oh, fuck.”

“That’s about the reaction I expected,” says the man standing in the hallway, and he’s haloed in the terrible fluorescent lighting but that silhouette is unmistakable. The, uh. The beard is new (and _fucking devastating_, good lord), though she recognizes the eyes just fine, crinkled as they are in a smile that should be inappropriate but feels anything but. “You two doing alright, given the circumstances?”

“Uh.” Michaela rubs at her eyes, just double-checking she’s not seeing things, but. Nope. That’s Steve Rogers in all his glory, filling out the doorway of their shitty motel room and smiling like he’s the answer to all their prayers. Which he probably is. “We’re. Not dead or imprisoned. So I mean things could be worse?”

“_Ohmygod _is that—”

“Yeah, Peter. Don’t, uh. Freak out, okay, we can’t afford the noise complaint.”

“Nice to meet you. Peter, right? Nat’s told me the basics, but I’ve looked into what you were doing back in New York, and you did a helluva job as Spider-Man.”

“Captain America _knows who I am_—”

“Please, for the love of fuck, do not start hyperventilating, because _I’ll _start hyperventilating, and Rogers does not need to see that.”

“If it helps, I don’t really go by Captain America these days.”

Michaela slants him an exasperated look, to which he looks rightly sheepish. “Rogers, the title’s not why he’s excited. You’re – _you_, it’s a lot to take in.”

“That’s what Pietro tells me, so I guess I should take your word for it.”

Pietro. Oh, god. Pietro and Wanda Maximoff are hiding out with Steve, plus Bucky fucking Barnes. Her brain short circuits for a second as she realizes the implications of Steve’s presence in their ratty motel room.

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’re our escort?”

Steve smiles, and it’s entirely too bright and warm and it’s going to kill Michaela dead one of these days. “Something like that. You guys ready to move out, or do you need a few minutes to get your things together?”

They don’t have _things_, but it’s sweet of Steve to pretend. Peter, evidently over his infatuation (at least momentarily), has crawled out of bed and is standing next to Michaela, their Natasha-approve packs swinging from his arm. They don’t even need to get dressed – they’ve been sleeping in jeans since they hit the motel, too paranoid to get comfortable; Peter only really sleeps because he knows he’ll wake up at the slightest hint of danger, which proved true tonight, even if it was a little misplaced.

She shares a look with Peter – half awe, half fear – then runs a hand through her tangled hair and offers Steve a mostly-sincere smile.

“Ready when you are, Cap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow. This has been.... one hell of a journey for me. It's been years since I finished a fanfic (or any story, for that matter) of this caliber, and I'm just super happy to be finished. I've loved writing Michaela's story from start to finish, but these last for chapters have been like pulling teeth to write, and I've been eager to be done for a while now. I hope this ending isn't terribly cliche, or outright irritating for anyone; I've had this idea in my head since about halfway through the fic and couldn't not write it, ya know? 
> 
> I don't have plans for a sequel, per se, but this isn't the last you'll be seeing of Michaela and Co. I might end up doing interconnected one-shots instead of a true sequel, but either way you'll get more of Michaela's life on the run. I'm especially excited to get into her relationship with the other fugitives (and Natasha, who will be back, along with Matt! So don't worry about that!).
> 
> I hope anyone who's made it to this point has enjoyed this story as much as I have, or, honestly, even half as much as me. I appreciate every comment, every kudos, every read. The interaction with this story has meant so much to me. Thank you all for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Question for anyone reading: Do you guys think I should put the interlude chapters (and any extra bits I write that maybe don't fit the linear storyline) in a separate story? I don't know if they detract from the story any, and well, I have a fun chapter for Matt and Michaela that I'm working on that probably... doesn't belong in the main story. So, if you've any thoughts on the matter, let me know! Any feedback is appreciated!
> 
> Oh, and if you ever want to talk Marvel or specifics about this story, I'm on tumblr! I'm greyhavensking over there as well, so hit me up if you wanna chat!


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